Residue
by CluelessKitten
Summary: Ford's emotions, Bill reflected, were like a sort of cancer - growing into all that he was, infecting every part of his being. Sometimes, he really wished he'd never possessed the guy in the first place. But some days... some days, he was grateful. (platonic!Stanley&Bill relationship)
1. Bill-Down the Rabbit Hole

_Residue_

* * *

,

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Bill Cipher watched as one Stanley Pines screamed at a broken portal. The man was at the end of his rope, or nearing it. Aboveground, the sun was slowly but surely lighting up the sky.

Stanley Pines was Important. He didn't have the fez yet – and to be honest, Bill had no idea where he'd even get such a thing but this was Gravity Falls – but he would, some faraway day. He'd wear it and be Mr. Mystery, owner of the rundown shack that somehow managed to squeeze money out of people. It was a pretty good business, too. Somehow.

There were a lot of somehows involved concerning Stanley.

Sixer had never mentioned his brother, though there were times when he did think about Stanley. Bill knew, had been in the gullible scientist's head more often than not for a short while back there. Stanley, as far as Bill could tell, was a complicated matter for Ford. The feelings were complicated, their past was complicated, and even their eventual reunion was filled with so many unspokens that they couldn't help but have a brawl right in front of an active portal.

Alright, so a lot of that last part was more Bill's fault than anyone else's. And it would be a lie to say that he hadn't influenced the Pines family's lives somewhat even right at the beginning. But the players had all acted their parts beautifully and now here they were.

With little left to do, as the work was now being done for him, he waited. He watched. He felt the small warm rush in being near Stanley, as well as the irritation and old hurt that came along with it. Ford's emotions – the guy really didn't know how to let the past go – even after all these years.

The feelings clung to Bill like ink stains on a white shirt. Dirty. Maybe even faintly nauseating. But the feelings also demanded that he stay close to Stanley and, after some futile weeks spent on the opposite side of the world, he did.

 _Brothers_. He tasted the word and flinched away from it.

Disgusting.

,

"Why do you do it?"

"I ain't answering a floating triangle in a top hat."

Bill fought down the urge to smite Stanley Pines straight across the mindscape. "Humor me, then."

Stanley merely poked Bill, a contemplative look on his face. Exasperation bordering the edge of fondness rose up inside Bill even as he batted away the offending hand. Honestly, humans these days had no respect. "You sure are a lucky potato, you know that, Pines?"

Stanley couldn't quite hold back his snort.

"Yeah," Bill pressed on, "Y'are. Everyone, even your genius brother had to summon me. But you? I'm visiting you for free."

If only because the feelings itched like a rash that refused to go away.

"You worked with Ford?"

…Of course, _that_ was what the big oaf processed. Oh, well. Stanley Pines didn't have failing grades in high school for no reason after all. Not that he was stupid – well, not _entirely_ ; a smart man would dismantle the portal or leave Gravity falls and never come back, not spend more than half his life fixing the damned thing – but Stanley had a one-track mind that was … well, a bit of a hamper sometimes.

Stanley Pines looked on Bill with frankly justified suspicion. Birds of a feather should _at least_ be able to recognize one another, shouldn't they? And it wasn't as if Bill had never spoken like this to another human but the utter distrust in Stanley's face made something in him bristle.

This … this was going to be a problem.

,

"That part isn't supposed to go there."

Stanley yelped, dropping the wrench and a mechanical piece that he probably wouldn't even be able to pronounce the name of, considering Ford took it during one of his raids of the alien spacecraft. "Gimme a bit of warning before you drop in, won't you?"

Bill shrugged off the reprimand, replying, "Be careful with those pieces; there ain't anything else quite like them in your entire world and they'll break if you put them in the wrong places."

Stanley scowled at him, running a hand through his greasy and honestly overlong hair. "Well, genius, if you know so much, then why don't you just give me a hand?"

"Sorry! But unfortunately, I can only exist as a projection outside of the mindscape. All I can do is guide you. Unless…" Bill trailed off suggestively.

"No."

Ah, well. It was worth another try. Bill had made the offer of possession quite a few times now, but Stanley was definitely shrewder than Ford had been about the idea of having some omnipotent being take control of his fleshy and very breakable form.

Bill peeked over Stanley's shoulder. The man was still wearing his winter clothes, the exact same ones he had first arrived with. They'd been washed since then, but Stanley seemed to have a strange aversion to borrowing any of Ford's items, gingerly using as little of the house's contents as humanly possible – with the exception of Sixer's various liquor stashes, anyway. In any case, he'd need some new clothes come spring. And how was he going to pay the bills at the end of the month? Bill had checked the man's wallet over and he knew for a fact that Stanley only had a few pesos and cents left in the nooks and crannies of his belongings. Definitely not enough.

"You'll overload the system if you do that."

Stanley grunted but kept going. Finally, Bill shoved himself right up in front of the man's face and said, "Stanley. You. Will. Destroy. The house."

He blinked. "Huh?"

Bill closed his eye and counted down from ten. When he found the patience to look at Stanley again, he opened his eye. "If you attach that to the circuitry, it'll overload the system and cause the portal to explode." And amusing as the thought was, that would just screw everyone over. More importantly, it would screw Bill over and he didn't think he was ever going to find anyone quite as willing as Stanford to build an inter-dimensional portal on an unknown being's say-so.

He tried not to think of Stanley burning into ash within a fraction of a millisecond.

Anyway, new tactic: "When did you last get some rest?"

Stanley waved him off as he opened up a new panel to check out. "I sleep just fine."

Bill narrowed his eyes and wished he had lips to purse. Instead, he settled for the next best thing.

It took Stanley a few seconds to realize that the world had faded into monochrome and that he could no longer manipulate the delicate machinery he was trying and currently failing to fix. When he did, he jumped up, swearing wildly in two languages.

"You can't _do_ that!"

"You'll find that I very well can," Bill replied coolly, folding his legs as he leaned back against empty air. "Especially if you're already exhausted."

Within the confines of the dreamscape, Stanley continued to curse and rant but in the real world, his body snored.

Inwardly, Bill smiled.

,

In one world, Stanley Pines died of suffocation in the trunk of an abandoned car. In another world, he was beaten to death before his fingers, teeth and any vaguely valuable possessions were removed from his person. But in this world, the world where he actually managed to live long enough to push his brother into an inter-dimensional gateway built for a demonic being older than human history, he was currently trying to buy groceries. 'Trying' being the operative word, because there was only so much you could buy with two cents.

"I like this," Bill said, ever the lingering ghost. Sometimes, Stanley wondered if his presence was some sort of karmic punishment the world was dishing out on him. Hah. Bill was so much worse than the universe could ever hope for. "You, me, stealing loaves of bread from the local convenience store. A modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, that's what we are."

"Shut. _Up_."

"C'mon, Stan! Don't want people thinking you're crazy, now, do you?"

Stanley ground his teeth. It was true; unless he wanted to get thrown into a mental ward, he had to keep his mouth clamped tight to keep from snapping at Bill like he could have done back at Ford's house. And Bill, the little bastard that he was, was having too much fun with this.

"Hey!"

Stanley turned around at the voice, annoyed expression melting away into something defensive, guarded, wary, _hunted_. The nervous smile didn't reach his eyes as he nodded at the person approaching him. He wasn't in any danger, none of the people in Gravity Falls were of particular concern at the moment, Bill knew that. But Stanley didn't. Stanley was _afraid_.

"I know you," the local man muttered. "You're … that researcher out in the middle of the woods!"

Stanford Pines was better known than he thought he had been. Well, he might have known that if he'd bothered talking to any of the locals once in a while but the past was the past and since the man in question was running away from some very angry desert creatures at the moment, the point was a little moot.

"Uh…" To his credit, Stanley was quick on the uptake. "Yeah! Yeah, I am."

And thus, Mr. Mystery was born.

,

If, in between the times he was with Stanley, Bill would disappear for a few hours before inevitably returning, neither of them mentioned it. If, during those few hours of separation, Bill visited a cult in the making, he never dropped a hint. And if he terrorized those people for weeks on end with some choice warnings and a few nightmares, then no word escaped the town of Gravity Falls.

The Society of the Blind Eye officially did not exist.

,

"Hey, Bill."

"Yeah, Stan?"

They were in the basement after a long day of business. The Murder Hut was a pretty good source of income this time of the year – at least, it did well enough to pay the bills as well as help pay off Ford's ridiculous college debt. It would be years before Stanley would be able to get even close to clearing the loaned money, what with the interest rates being how they were. Stanley had been more relaxed after opening up the tourist trap; maybe it was finally having a defined, legal purpose for every day that brought him out of his shell or maybe it was the lack of financial worries or both. In any case, he was, if not completely well, then looking a little better.

"Did you work on this with Ford?"

Stanley was flipping through the journal – he only had the first one, thank goodness – almost absentmindedly. He had already read the thing cover to cover and gleaned all of the information he could from the pages. It was still only a third of the information he needed to fix the portal.

Bill floated over to peer over Stanley's shoulder. His eyes landed on a page about … unicorns. _Ah_ , yes, the unicorns. Ford had been _so_ disappointed when he'd met them. "I'm afraid not, kid. He spent a few years out here before we met and he already did quite a bit of research by then." Heaven forbid that Stanley ever find the third journal. No, that information was meant for another Pines in another generation. And just as well. Ford had written quite a lot of … _unflattering_ things about Bill there.

That journal would stay in its hidden little hole in the woods for the next thirty years, just as it should. Maybe forever, even.

"But you did work on the portal together?"

"Yes…" Where was Stanley going with this?

"How much more damage is left to fix, do you think?"

Ah. Well. That was … a complicated question. To someone who knew what he was doing, it would only take a week or two – maybe a month, at most. But for someone like Stanley… "I dunno, kid … it could take a while."

Bill was screwing himself over by being this blatantly involved, he knew that well enough. If the portal was fixed now, then Ford would come back with the rift but without anyone to actually wreck its container. And without anyone to wreck its container, Bill couldn't tear their dimension open and rule their universe. And if Bill didn't somehow get into this world, then he would be stuck in a rotting dimension with his – er, friends, if that was what they could be called.

In one world, Bill let Stanley toil away for the next three decades until the correct players came along to dance upon their puppet's strings.

But in this world … in this world, Bill Cipher looked at a recently clean-shaven Stanley Pines who had just had his mullet chopped off at the barber shop. He looked at the disappointment in the kid's eyes, saw the heartache of the next three decades. He saw guilty, sleepless nights, a bright life wasted away. And, fully knowing the ramifications of his actions, he placed a twiggy black hand on Stanley's shoulder.

"But don't worry," Bill promised, "I'll help ya out, buddy. As much as I possibly can."

He didn't need a handshake.

,

Stanley Pines was dead.

A small note in the newspapers, that was all it earned. To be fair, he didn't have a lot of friends by that point in life. But he did have Bill. He had the Murder Hut – well, it was the Mystery Shack, now, much more family-friendly, apparently, something Bill didn't fully understand – and he had … not much else. His car? Yes, he still had his car.

'Stanford' Pines held the funeral, buried the casket. And Bill watched as Shermie Pines, five years older than the twins, wept over an empty grave.

Their parents were nowhere in sight.

Stanley stood awkwardly, the host of his own funeral, as he tried to comfort his eldest brother.

It was one of the most pathetic events Bill had ever bothered attending. Still, he stuck by Stanley's side, never leaving the man's shoulder. He listened, silent, as the two brothers interacted for the first time in more than ten years. The reassurances Stanley told Sherman weren't the empty ones Bill was familiar with – these were sincere words, not empty platitudes; they were words beyond the grave. Words of the mourned.

If Sherman noticed anything out of place, then he was too distraught to mention it.

For a moment, Bill thought Stanley would take the six-fingered gloves off and confess, but the kid was strong through it all. Or foolish. Certainly, this would one day be a regret; Bill couldn't see a way the entire situation wouldn't wrong once Ford came back. But it was the road Stanley chose and Bill watched, somber, as the entire scene unfolded.

The ride back to the Mystery Shack was uncharacteristically quiet.

But finally, Stanley reached over to the passenger's side, opened the glove compartment and pulled out an old cassette. He fed it into the audio system – he could afford one now, and wasn't that a treat? – leaned back, and put his eyes on the road.

An old song filled the car. It felt … nostalgic.

"My bro and I used to listen to this song all the time when we were kids."

Ah. One of Ford's emotions again, then. Bill should really start disentangling himself from those. They were getting meddlesome. Well … more than meddlesome – and it already started a while back.

"Did he ever talk about me?"

Bill looked away.

Stanley's fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel. "Heh, yeah … I guess he wouldn't."

"He loved you." Bill kept his eyes on his hands, away from Stanley's expression. "He never talked about you … but he loved you."

They sank back into the silence but it was easier than before. Lighter. As Stanley continued to drive, Bill thought about two boys and a boat.

,

Fifty years was a blink of an eye to Bill. But it was also enough for Stanley to wither with age. Enough for his bones to creak, for his eyesight to grow cataracts, for Bill to seriously start worrying about the man's health.

"Yeesh, Bill! You looked like you've seen a ghost."

Bill blinked and saw Stanley, a young Stanley with scars but few health problems. The worst thing he had right now was lack of rest. Ever since he'd faked his own death, Stanley had thrown himself into managing the shack by day and fixing the portal at night. It left very little time for anything else.

He was going to spend his entire life fixing the thing. And when he did, Bill would get what he'd been working towards for the last several thousand years.

Bill flexed his fingers. Took in a deep breath. Let it out. "Hey, Stanley."

Eyes lingering on the physics text, Stanley took a few moments to look up. "Yeah?"

Bill looked into his eyes – brown, tired, identical to Ford's but so, so _different_ – and his courage failed him. "...There's an abandoned spacecraft hidden in Gravity Falls. That's where Ford got a lot of his materials for the portal. You're gonna need to give it a visit soon – some of those parts are fried." Of course they were fried; they were never meant to work more than once or twice if they were lucky.

"Of course." Stanley buried his head in his hands and let out a loud groan. "And just when I thought this stuff was starting to get simple."

"Relax, kid, I'll help you through it."

Stanley shot Bill a tired but grateful – _genuine_ – smile between his fingers.

Bill wasn't quite sure he was able to reciprocate.

,

"This security system is stupid!"

Mental Note – never take Stanley down to Ford's hidden lab. Or do, if ever he wanted the guy to go completely insane. Or get eaten by the shapeshifter. Was that still around?

Still, watching Stanley dance around the safety measures was amusing and so was pointing out how to get around. It was convenient that the gravity guns could last so long without maintenance, or they might have had to face the very real prospect of having to reinvent technology that hadn't yet been thought of on earth. On second thought, patenting that would probably make Stanley rich for the rest of his life but … that wasn't the point right now.

"C'mon, kid, we're nearly there. Just one more right."

"Good," Stanley grunted. "This place is creepin' me out."

Bill's laughter echoed through the hollow corridors.

,

Time passed and the winter chill began creeping back into Gravity Falls. And as it did, Stanley retreated into the Mystery Shack like a bear sinking into hibernation. Little to no tourists passed by at this time of year, anyway, so there wasn't much point in even trying to open up shop.

Bill sat down on the edge of the desk. Stanley had fallen asleep after another late night of studying advanced physics and schematics that Bill had helped him sketch out some days ago.

Celebrating today was one of the last things Stanley wanted to do and it wasn't as if Bill could give anything, but he sat awkwardly beside Stanly on the desk anyway. Gently, he patted the kid's arm.

"Merry Christmas, Stanley." Bill closed his eye and leaned against him, letting himself relax. "Merry Christmas."

,

The portal was getting done too fast. Only four years had passed but the work left to be done was … so little. Bill estimated two weeks at most until they could turn it back on.

What happened after … was still up in the air. Bill could take over this dimension, rule the earth. It didn't mean he'd have to hurt Stanley – he could get used to the change. Right?

…Except, there was Ford. Stanford would vilify Bill, tell Stanley the whole truth. That couldn't happen.

Bill wouldn't let it.

But first… "What the heck is _that_?"

"Cinnamon," Stanley replied as he stirred a thick mixture. "Sixer – I mean, Ford, had a ridiculously large stash in his cupboard and it was still good so I thought I'd whip up some Stancakes."

Bill wished he had an eyebrow to raise. "Stancakes."

"Yeah, they're my special recipe!" Stanley started heating the griddle. He looked … happier than he had in a long while. Much happier. "It's a Pines family tradition to make 'em this way."

Stanley kept talking and Bill watched him cook. Bill relished the relaxed air, the smell of breakfast that he could pick up if he wanted it enough. It reminded him of older times … better times…

Times that weren't his to enjoy remembering.

There was no happy middle for the outcome. And Bill was going to have to tell Stanley the truth sooner or later, but for now, they were having breakfast. Right now, there was a crispness in the air, a slight chill leftover in the spring. Bill thought about the dimensions, he thought about his friends and Ford, who was a definite wrench in everything he'd built up in the last four years with Stanley. But most of all, he thought about Stanley, who would die if his brother did. He thought about Stanley, who could never fit into the world that Bill wanted to make earth into – who would never _accept_ what Bill was planning, if only he knew the truth of it. He thought about how, in around fifty or sixty odd years, he would no doubt be watching Stanley's actual funeral.

Bill floated through the varying dimensions and felt something inside him ache. Finally, he settled on a destination. It wasn't very far away, considering it wasn't a physical location.

"Stanley."

"Bill! What are you doing here?"

Invading Stanley's dreamscape wasn't something Bill did too often, per the kid's request. And Stanley was just a kid, when he took the unpleasant time to think about it – compared to Bill's own lifespan, Stanley was an infant.

Thinking on these sorts of things rarely made Bill feel at all better about the matter.

"If you could live forever, would you?"

That gave Stanley pause. Finally, he laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, no thanks! One lifetime of all this is enough for me." He calmed down, turning serious as he registered Bill's expression – he could be a very expressive triangle when he wanted to be, which somewhat impressed Stanley, considering he only had one eye and no mouth. "Something wrong, man?"

"No…" Bill took in a deep breath. The truth. The truth was needed now. "You weren't able to read the warnings in the journal, but there's something you have to know about the portal."

Stanley's breath hitched.

"The world could end if you open it up."

For one whole minute, Stanley only stared at Bill. But then, finally, he threw his head back and laughed. The harshness of his voice, the strained light in his eyes contrasted the sound, made it into a mockery of what it was meant to signify. "And you're only telling me about this now?!" He turned away from Bill, running a hand through his hair. He was only thirty and human, he shouldn't have had to deal with this. Finally, when his voice grew hoarse, he stopped laughing. "I'm doing it anyway."

"Even knowing that you might change the world irrevocably?"

Stanley folded his arms, looking Bill straight in the eye. "I'm not going to abandon my brother to some weird dimension away from earth just because of something that _might_ happen. Who knows? Maybe something might _not_ happen. Maybe everything will be fine. You don't – well, okay, _I_ don't know. The world _could_ end. Everything _might_ change. But I _will_ get my brother back."

Huh. Blind loyalty must run in the family. And then, Ford just had to go and infect Bill with a bit of it. Of course.

 _The world_ could _end._

…And it all depended on Bill.

,

Today was the day.

"Hey, Stanley."

"Yeah, Bill?"

Just a few more modification… If only Bill could slow time down. If only he'd done things differently. If only he hadn't gotten these idiotic feelings; they lost their amusement a long time ago.

"Everything might be different after this."

But for now, Stanley was smiling at him, really smiling, and Bill knew he couldn't take this away. He never did get around to taking down the bounty for Ford's head, though.

"Yeah – different in a good way."

How could he be so sure?

"Yeah."

Bill followed Stanley towards the portal's switch. The machine came alive, glowing bright, whirring loud. The earth shook, gravity disappeared one second and reinstated itself in the next. Earth's dimension was pierced.

A lone figure stepped through, clad in a ragged coat, wielding a gun as he surveyed his surroundings, already carrying the Rift in a disturbingly breakable container. Bill watched, nothing more than a projection, as he approached Stanley. And Stanley, he looked positively radiant at the sight of his brother. He looked younger than he ever had during his and Bill's time working together and as Ford came closer, he opened his arms to greet his family.

Bill looked away. Something inside him hurt.

And then, before Bill, before the open portal, before the machinery that took four years of blood sweat and tears, Ford punched Stanley hard enough to knock him into the ground.

Bill saw red.

,

,

* * *

 **Author's Note** : So, uh, as you can see, I've been getting into platonic!Stanley&Bill relationships lately. It's hard to write out, and I don't really feel sure with the style I used. Constructive criticism is very much welcome.

Thank you for reading!


	2. Stan-Over the Years

_Residue_

* * *

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It wasn't dark enough.

Stanley squeezed his eyes shut, brought the sheets up to his chin. He didn't want to see the carefully-done ceiling, feel the couch's upholstery even if it was the softest, most luxurious thing he'd lain on in a long while. Outside, the blizzard raged but he didn't have to worry about that, not at the moment.

Oh, God, _Ford_.

 _Stanley, DO something!_

But Stanley had been too slow, too shocked, too stupidly clueless about anything and everything that mattered. And just like that, Ford's portal just … swallowed him whole.

Was his brother even alive anymore?

Stanley's eyes hurt, every scar he gained over the years ached, and his chest felt heavy.

He didn't know when he fell asleep but Ford wasn't back when he woke up the next morning. His brother didn't return in the day after that, either, or the next. Still, Ford haunted the house. His presence lingered in everything, from the weird carpet that caused way to much static, to the weird things that were hung up on the walls.

And Stanley, with no clue what to do with himself, raided the liquor cabinet. It wasn't a great idea, by any means, and God knew he should be freaking out more than this or calling the police or Shermie or _somebody actually useful_ but he didn't. He couldn't. He'd made the mess, no one else needed to be dragged into it. It was bad enough he'd ruined his twin's life not once but _twice_. He was going to fix this if it was the last thing he did.

 _I'm giving you the chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won't listen to me!_

Maybe it would be the last he ever did.

Ah, whatever, that was the alcohol talking now. Stanley made his way to the couch, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, Ford's journal clutched in the other. There sure were a lot of weird stuff in Sixer's house. Guess not everything changes, even after ten years…

Stanley settled himself on the couch and opened the journal to the first page.

,

Stanley was alone.

It was strange. Not necessarily frightening; he'd been lonely for ten years – and what a crazy, morally-dubious run those ten years were – but then, at least he'd had some sort of interaction with the human race. Running cons, swindling the more easily-led folks out of their cash… Trapped in Ford's house for the winter with nothing but a journal to keep him company and a huge ass broken portal to fix, he was more alone than he'd ever wanted to be. Had Sixer really lived like this the entire time? No wonder the guy went crazy – just two weeks cooped up in the house and Stanley felt almost ready to burst. It didn't help that he almost constantly felt on edge; sure, he hadn't made any enemies in this state yet, but some of his old acquaintances could be … persistent.

He looked over the windows again – they were all locked, just as they were when he checked them several hours ago.

Stanley breathed out a sigh of relief before heading back down the basement to continue fixing the portal – or trying to, anyway.

Considering all the alcohol he consumed in a day, the isolation, his stress and exhaustion, he couldn't really say he was too surprised when a talking, neon yellow triangle in a top hat appeared in his dreams. He'd dreamed weirder things before.

But it was fun, poking at Bill, giving the guy – er, triangle? – the full spiel about how he wasn't real and all that. It really ticked him off, even when he tried not to show it. It was more fun, harmless, inconsequential fun than he'd had in so long it was like the first breath of pure, fresh air after almost drowning. There was nothing wrong about ticking off a dream, no matter how much it threatened to dismember you and hold its 'unimaginable power' against you. Even Bill seemed to realize he couldn't really do anything.

And then, he woke up.

,

One drunken night, he screamed at the portal obscenities that would have made his old cell buddies blush. He smashed one of Ford's bottles against the machine, threw one of those damned science books that made his head hurt less than five minutes into reading it, at the wall.

He hated it. He hated all of it.

Come morning, he cleaned up the mess and went back to work.

,

He was going to run out of food soon.

,

Stanley couldn't get his brother back.

In retrospect, he really should have realized it sooner. For God's sake, he hadn't even graduated high school and he only even got that far because Ford helped him out every step of the way. How could he do something this … this … _huge_ on his own? He didn't have the smarts to fix something a genius made! What was he even thinking?

Ford was stuck on the other side, facing God knew what … because of Stanley.

Again.

Stanley's fingers twirled the knife, moving it around, his eyes never wavering from the gleaming blade. There were other ways, he knew that well enough; plenty of rope to do the exact same job. Less messy, too, if he was being honest. This would be bloody, painful … of course it would be; bodies never wanted to die, after all. They struggled to live even when there really wasn't any point any more.

He'd seen it himself, not too long ago.

But it'd been three months. Three grueling, heartbreaking months that he'd worked on the machine. At least he could say he tried. For over ten years, he's tried. It wasn't so bad, to finally concede to the world, to want out now, right?

Right?

He wasn't sure anymore.

His hand trembled as he put the knife's edge to his throat, felt the sharpness of it.

This was going to be easy. Going to be fast. Going to be more than he deserved because Stanley had proven in this very room that he was worse than useless – he was downright destructive. He destroyed his brother's life, ruined his family's opportunities, _Stanley Pines should never have been born_. He was never meant to exist and it would have been better if he hadn't.

He began to move the blade across his neck–

" _What do you think you're doing_?"

Stanley's head jerked so hard he could have gotten whiplash, and felt his jaw drop. It was Bill. It was fucking _Bill_. But–

"You don't need to be asleep for me to appear to you. I just can't do anything like this."

Oh. _Oh._ So, Bill was either real – which was unlikely – or Stanley was now hallucinating so bad that he could see and talk to something he had made up in a dream.

Wow.

Well, _this_ was certainly a new low. Stan had just officially jumped off the deep end. Good job, hats off to you. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

"Hey, come on, don't just ignore me now!"

Stanley put the knife down, staring hard at Bill. "What do you want?"

It was a good question, if a purely curious one. Because Bill was tenser than Stanley had ever seen him. Well, in fairness, he'd usually only seen Bill become annoyed and it was mostly because of things Stan did and said, but there was an edge in his voice this time. Stanley looked close at Bill and he saw panic.

He saw fear.

Genuine fear hidden under the bravado of the triangle's odd humor and irritating voice. Was it because he knew he couldn't actually do anything to stop Stanley? Because the part of Stanley's mind that's brought him about was aware that he would die along with Stan?

He wondered.

"–And what's Sixer gonna do, huh?" Bill continued as Stanley tuned back into what he was saying. "He's waiting for you, you know. Are you just gonna leave 'im hanging like that?"

There were a lot of things he wanted to say about that. On the forefront of his mind was 'what the heck does a triangle like you know'. Instead, he said, "But I can't fix the machine."

And _that_ was where Bill paused. That was where he hesitated, where he dropped off so suddenly Stanley was almost tempted to ask if he was okay. And for an uncomfortably long while, there was silence.

Finally: "I'll help you."

Stanley paused. "Sorry. I thought you said you were going to help me fix an impossible machine by my impossible brother, figment of my imagination." Wow, those books of Ford's were really starting to rub off on him.

Bill threw his stick-like black hands into the air. "Oh, for the love of – you know what, never mind that. If I promise to help you, will you work on the portal again?"

He hesitated. What could be different from his old efforts to understand physics, engineering, and Ford's journal that read like it'd been written during some sort of high?

"C'mon, Stanley." Bill floated down to his knee and sat there, somehow managing with one eye and no eyebrow or any other particularly distinguishing feature, to convey an expression torn between pleading and hopefulness. Then again, maybe it all was just in Stanley's head. "Ford _needs_ you."

 _Please come_.

The knife clattered on the floor as tears ran down Stanley's face. "I can't do this," he gasped between sobs because he was weak and he was pathetic and good-for-nothing and oh _God_ , why couldn't he stop crying?! "I-I can't!"

All through it, Bill held him with black, stick-like arms. Hugging and hushing him like Ford used to do. And when he woke up with his side of his face planted on the desk, drooling out of the corner of his mouth, Bill was there, waiting for him. For a long while, he simply stared emptily at the neon-yellow triangle, not bothering to even shift from his uncomfortable position, but eventually, Bill floated over to greet him a good afternoon.

It was a few days before he finally said it back.

,

Bill was there. Not all the time, thankfully, but he was there often.

Most of the knives – and wires and other sharp instruments – suddenly disappeared from their respective places.

Stanley checked the windows and doors but everything stood undisturbed.

,

All it took was one grocery trip to make everything better. In one grocery trip, he'd managed to somehow take up a new identity, think of a long-term scam that seemed like it would actually work and figure out what he was going to do for as long as he was trying to get Ford back.

And, oddly, Bill was often with him – even after he started talking to other people. Didn't mental stuff like him usually disappear once you actually started socializing or whatever? Not that Stan was complaining; Bill was … reliable to have around. Not in the sense that he could actually do anything, but at least Stanley knew the yellow triangle wouldn't just go around spilling his secrets. He was a good ear for even the stupidest complaints that Stanley had. A surprisingly good listener, for a floating triangle wielding a cane.

Stanley glanced at Bill, who was idly floating around the Shack as random tourists bustled about.

Sometimes, he didn't quite believe that Bill was part of his imagination anymore. Bill just … knew too much. More than Stanley could ever imagine. It was uncanny. But what _else_ could Bill be?

He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

,

"He loved you."

Stanley startled at Bill's words. They were in his car, driving back to the Murder Hut after hosting his own funeral. It was a nice one. Quiet. Small. His parents weren't there but Shermie showed up. Cried. Almost made Stan let the entire secret out. His words had just been so … _sad_.

"I never should have let him stay on the streets." Sherman Pines didn't cry often. He was the oldest of the Pines brothers, the most level-headed. The most responsible. But he'd sobbed every regret he had like there was no tomorrow – and, Stanley reflected, there really might not be. "I should have looked for him harder."

It was hard not to feel as if Stanley really was burying a brother. But Ford was still alive – he had to believe that.

"He might not have talked about you … but he loved you."

Bill, who claimed to have had worked with Sixer – who apparently had, for a short while anyway, been a confidant of sorts to his brother. The questions of how and why stuck in Stanley's throat, silently choking him as his eyes stung. He gripped the steering wheel firmly, and managed to smile once they got back home.

Yes, he was going to get Ford back.

,

"Bill, what the heck are you, even?"

"A dream demon."

"…Right. So you're real? Like, really real?"

"Yes, Stan, I'm really real."

"...You hid my stuff, didn't you?"

"Stuff?"

"My knives and junk."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"…Whatever."

,

One year ago today, Stanley was driving across borders after a particularly nasty scam. One year ago today, he was tired, hungry, with nowhere to go and no clue as to what he would do next. He was living in his car, laying low, hiding from the law.

Today, he had a pretty good business coming around that only promised to get better. He had a house – although, he would forever be loathe to call it _his_ house – food in his fridge and he was paying his taxes.

And there was Bill. Bill, who stayed with Stanley during the late nights of work; Bill, who reminded him about things like sleeping and eating and Stanley, you're out of groceries again; Bill, who kept him going when he thought he couldn't any more. Who stayed, kept him company in his dreams, told him little stories about Ford.

"What do you want out of all this?"

"Huh?" Bill looked, for the first time, absolutely confused, and Stanley couldn't keep the tiny smirk off his face. "Sorry, kid, I don't think I follow."

"Whaddaya want out of all this?" Stan repeated. "I mean, you're giving me a lot of help and it's not as if I don't appreciate it, but I doubt that – er, _dream demons_ do a lot of things for free."

"You're right, kid – I don't."

Stanley's heart skipped a beat. Here, after eight months of working together, was the catch. He just hoped he could pay his dues because he highly doubted he could just run away from something like Bill. But, hey, Bill was a pretty reasonable guy – it wasn't as if he'd ask for Stanley's firstborn or something like that, right?

…Right?

"But I wasn't kidding when I told you before that you're real lucky," Bill continued. "Everyone else needs to pay for my help, but you? This ain't gonna cost you a single cent."

"But why?" No one ever did _anything_ for free. Especially not for him.

"Look, kid, your brother might have been a good colleague of mine – that's why I showed up in the first place – but I've really taken a shine to you." Bill looked away for a moment, folding his arms, looking all contemplative. But then his eye landed back on Stanley and he said, in a forcibly cheered tone, "So let's get this portal up and running, what do you say?"

Stanley had a lot of things to say about that. He wanted answers, _real_ answers. But Bill had that look again – that unreadable expression that he was far too familiar with despite not seeing it for ten years. It was uncanny. Stanley was a simple guy and he didn't claim to be some sort of dream demon whisperer but something deep inside him said don't peek, don't pry. There were skeletons in every guy's closet and that probably counted doubly so for something like Bill.

He didn't have to smile, though, didn't have to pretend to be happy about being kept in the dark. But he wasn't too grieved over it, either. He'd take what came – what was important was getting Ford back. Even if it cost him his soul.

Still, he huffed. "Yeah, fine, whatever. Keep your secrets, then."

,

They adventured down some weird, old UFO hidden underneath the town and Stanley wondered how many times Ford had gone down these exact same corridors.

"What was he even trying to do, anyway?" Stanley groused as he picked his way through another pile of rubble. "A portal that could reach through dimensions? Really? He thought that would be a good idea?"

"IQ's always been ambitious – you would know that."

And yeah, Stanley did know that, sort of. He just hadn't realized that ambition had grown ridiculously large enough for Ford to have ever been able to fool himself into building something as drastic as the gateway-thing. "Yeah, but how did he even think that thing up?"

"That's actually my fault," Bill confessed, floating above all the debris, the lucky bastard. Stanley stared at him for a long hard moment before he clarified, "It came up during a conversation and things … spiraled from there. It especially didn't help when we parted the way we did."

"Why did you?"

"Hmm?'

"Why did ya both split? You two seemed pretty close, if you were working with Ford like that."

And then, there was an odd gleam in Bill's eye, a sort of smugness that sent shivers down Stanley's spine. Reminders that Bill was more than a triangle with outdated accessories. Maybe more than Stanley could ever imagine. "That's right, Stan. We were closer than two peas in a pod."

"…Right."

Sometimes, Stanley really wondered just what kind of relationship Ford and Bill used to have, but something told him he didn't want to know that, either.

,

"Was that Shermie?"

Stanley glanced at Bill as he put down the phone. "Yeah, his kid's having his birthday soon and they were askin' if I could swing by."

"Will you?"

Stanley faltered. Family … was complicated.

"You should."

He looked at Bill again, looked at him closer and found that the yellow triangle's eye seemed … a little distant today. "The portal–"

"–Will be here when you come back," Bill finished, a sort of firmness in his tone that rubbed him the wrong sort of way. "A weekend away won't do any harm."

"But–"

"Go see your family."

"Why are you so invested in this?"

Silence. Silence that stretched long enough that Stanley started fidgeting under Bill's disquieting gaze. Still, he refused to back down. Ford needed him to fix the machine as soon as he possibly could. Every hour of every day mattered.

"Don't let the portal eat your life, Stanley." Bill's voice, breaking the silence, was dead without its usual cheer or lilt. Something inside Stanley withered at the sound of it so empty and – did it always sound so inhuman? "Not like Ford did. Please, don't–" He broke off for a moment before continuing, "Don't forget that you still have family here. And they want you, Stanley. They want you to be there with them. Don't throw that away."

"It's not me they want, though … it's Ford."

Bill glanced at him. "If they knew you were alive, they would've sent you an invite, too, y'know."

"Well, we'll never know, now, will we?" But Shermie … knowing him, he probably would have, provided he could get his hands on an address.

"Don't you?" Bill asked softly, almost too soft for Stanley's ears.

Something inside Stanley squirmed. This was an uncomfortable situation – arguments were supposed to be loud, were supposed to be direct and maybe even have a fist or two involved. Arguments weren't supposed to be body language and undertones and however else intellectuals and dream demons talked with each other. But he was here now, having a disagreement he couldn't win against Bill, whether in a fistfight or with his words.

Stanley looked at the phone, remembered Shermie's words during his funeral. Remembered regret, remembered the pain and the doubt and the misery.

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Fine."

,

Three days later, Stanley was back in the Mystery Shack despite all of Shermie's pleas for him to stay a few more days. His brother did, however, manage to wrangle a promise out of him to visit soon. Currently, he sat on the couch, sorting through all of the photos and memorabilia on the dining table with Bill sitting on his shoulder.

"And here's me tryin' ta help bake the cake!"

The 'I told you so' never came. Stanley relaxed into the chair as he continued to rehash the weekend to Bill and he found himself as content as he'd ever been in the last ten years.

,

It had unnerved him at first, how Bill would often just _be_ there when he woke up. Just waiting a few feet away on the desk or in the air as Stanley slowly woke up from his restless sleep. After so long alone on the streets, on high alert for any warning signs, it was alarming to wake up with the feeling of being watched. Eventually, though, he had relaxed. There was nothing particularly malicious in Bill's eye – in fact, there were moments when he almost seemed _fond_ and Stanley really had to ask him about that sometime. Well, there were a lot of things Stanley wanted answers to but getting solid answers from Bill was often like trying to wring water from a rock.

But in the end, it didn't matter. Bill was there and with his help, Stanley was making faster progress than he could have ever hoped for. Stanley's face got used to smiling and laughing as Bill made the oddest jokes and sayings, able to tell an incredible story at a drop of his top hat.

"But you can't tell Sixer about me," Bill said in the middle of their conversation one afternoon.

Stanley sobered immediately. "Why not? I mean, sure, you two might have left on bad terms but – come on, Ford wouldn't hold a grudge about that after this." Probably. Maybe.

 _You cost me my dream school_!

Bill's humorless chuckle made him start a bit. "Trust me, kid, he will."

Kid. It was a sort of pet name Bill had taken to calling Stanley. It shouldn't have been a surprise, considering some of the nicknames he had for Ford, but there was something nice about it. About being given a nickname. And he disliked this, knowing that there was something wrong with Bill and Ford but not knowing what it was, not being able to _fix_ it. "But–"

"Please, just drop it," Bill cut in before Stanley could really start. He stared into Stanley's eyes intently. "Just promise me that you won't tell Ford about me."

He dipped his chin slightly. "…Fine."

As the days passed, Bill only seemed to grow more agitated about the thought of the portal being finished.

And then, he said it:

"It might end the world."

He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry. He wanted to pull out his hair and scream because _fuck_ , Sixer, you just had to make some sort of doomsday device right out of the comics, didn't you? And that was what Stanley was fixing? That was what he was going insane studying for in the dead of the night?

Stilted, uneven laughter escaped him until he couldn't anymore. This was crazy, _he_ was crazy, Bill and everything else related to this stupid town was fucking insane. But it didn't change anything, didn't mean he'd give up. This was a risk, sure, one that involved the entire world, but the last ten years had been one risk after another and he'd always managed to pull through. Maybes and mights and what ifs were well-settled constants in his life. He'd be damned if he let them stop him now.

He just wished Bill didn't look so damned sad.

,

"Sailing around the world sounds like a great plan."

"Glad you think so." It was another sleepless night but Bill was there and entirely too willing to have a conversation. In the darkness of the bedroom, Stanley could only just make out the triangular silhouette sitting on the edge of his nightstand but he drew some comfort from it.

"You think you'll ever get around to doing it?"

Stanley hesitated. "No real point in doing it alone," he pointed out. It actually sounded like a real good way to disappear, to be honest. And not in a good way, too.

Bill hummed, maybe thoughtfully maybe idly. Finally, he said, "I wouldn't mind. Going around the world, I mean. It sounds mighty interesting."

But Stanley scoffed. "What would you wanna see there that you can't go see for yourself now?"

He couldn't be sure, but Bill might have shrugged, saying, "Dunno. Whatever there is to see, I guess."

"But why'd ya wanna have a boat for it?"

"Same reason as you, I guess – no real point in going there alone."

There was something being implied here, something that Stanley didn't want to voice lest he be wrong and become an even bigger idiot than he'd been before. But Bill … was he saying-? Could he-? Was he saying he'd like to go on a boat with Stanley?

He thought about that. He thought about Bill's sense of humor, his easy nature, how he actually seemed to genuinely _like_ Stanley. He thought about nicknames and encouragement – he thought about that dark night so long ago with the knife. The open waters, with Bill to accompany him … it wasn't what he'd ever had in mind and it obviously wouldn't be the same… But it wasn't a bad thought.

It wasn't bad at all.

,

"Everything might be different after this."

This again. Somewhere behind him, Bill fretted and spoke about things that absolutely did nothing to help settle his nerves. Because Stanley couldn't deny the possibility that the world might end if he did this – but he _had_ to. For Ford. And so he said, firmly, even if he didn't really believe it, "Yeah – different in a good way."

He activated the portal.

The world shook, turned upside down and right side up. The entire lab filled with light.

And then his brother stepped through – at least, Stanley _assumed_ it was Ford. The figure was all covered up with a coat and a scarf along with a pair of goggles over his face. And was that a _gun_ strapped to his back?! But a six-fingered hand reached up to discard the scarf and goggles so that Stanley could see the very disgruntled face of his twin.

It was Ford.

It was _Ford_!

" _Bro_!" he shouted, opening up his arms. It didn't register until it was too late that the only thing coming his way was Ford's fist.

Stanley fell on his back, hitting his head against the edge of a console, too shocked to even land properly. He simply stared up at his estranged twin, wondering whywhywhywhywhywhy _why_ as he brought a hand up to rub his stinging jaw. His eyes, though untouched, began to burn.

And then something large and pointed and glowing a dangerous red with a gigantic black eye shot out of the still-open portal. He didn't recognize it – but then, his head felt kinda funny – but it was mad and he stumbled to his feet, trying to make sense of the entire situation. Trying to figure out once again, as he always had to whenever Ford was involved, what exactly was going on.

The large … _thing_ , he had no idea what else to call it, had tackled Ford. The two were currently fighting with a viciousness that went beyond survival instinct. These two knew each other. More than that, they _hated_ each other.

Okay, then.

Priority number one – stop the fight. Actually, with the way it was looking right now, the right title was probably more like 'stop the mutual murder attempts'.

Stanley steadied himself with a hand at the edge of the console, the other hand reaching up to the back of his head. He felt something wet. When he drew his hand back, he saw red.

Great. Just _great_.

And suddenly, he realized that the portal was _still_ on. He swore under his breath, turning to the controls as he began switching it off properly the way Bill had showed him a few weeks back. And as it powered down with a loud whine, he froze.

… _Bill_.

Stanley whipped around, staring somewhat dazedly at the enormous thing currently trying to stuff Ford into its mouth. It … had a pyramid shape and a top hat. Its arms and legs were like Bill's … so was the fact that it had just one eye… But it was black and red as opposed to Bill's regular yellow. But what other triangle would have a top hat?

Huh.

So Ford … and Bill … were currently trying to kill each other.

How the heck was he supposed to defuse _that_? Who would he even side with? Ugh, he couldn't _think_ …

But now that he thought about it, Ford being eaten wasn't a good thing either way, so he ran up to what he was assuming was Bill – he _hoped_ it was Bill, or he might just get squashed or eaten, too – and started beating on it with his fists, for all the visible good it did. Which was a lot, considering it got the thing to stop stuffing his struggling twin into its mouth to look at Stanley instead.

"Stop that!" Stanley roared, feeling like a kitten hissing at a bear. "That's my _brother_!"

For a long, frightening moment in which Ford cursed and struggled and warned Stanley to run despite having just _punched_ him a few seconds ago, the thing only stood and stared at Stanley with that contemplative expression he had grown used to seeing.

"Bill," Stanley said with a forced calm. And saying the name did seem to have some sort of effect on the thing, if indeed it was Bill. "C'mon. It's _Ford_."

–Which was apparently the wrong thing to say because it seemed to grow big and angry again at the words. But then, it calmed. It started turning orange and then yellow as it slowly shrank until it was about the same size as a person. Not like the Bill he'd always talked to – in his projections and in the dreamscape, Bill was always only about the size of Stanley's head – but it was close enough. At least he was being reasonable.

"Stanley…" Ford's voice was wary and Stanley prayed that, just this once, he would shut up and let him handle things.

" _Bill_ ," Stanley pressed, putting a hand on Bill, which was strange but the only thing he could think of. "We can all talk this out."

" **No** ," Bill said without a voice that etched itself into Stanley's bones. And by the way Ford shuddered, he felt it as well. But despite his response, Bill was already shrinking. He tossed Ford unceremoniously onto the ground, seeming amused by the pained grunt it elicited from Stanley's twin. Where was Ford's gun – oh, Bill had eaten that, too. Oh, well.

Ford, however, was beside himself. "Stanley, what the hell did you _do_?!"

"Now is not the time, Sixer," Stan hissed.

"Did you make a deal with Bill? Is that it?!"

"No, I did not – why would I even – what are you _talking_ about?"

"We didn't make a deal, IQ," Bill said with a roll of his eye, floating off the ground as he continued to shrink until he was back to his normal size. "Stop exaggerating my awfulness."

" _Exaggerating_?!"

" _Hey_ , now, everyone just pipe down!" There was a very real pain starting in the back of Stanley's head and were those stars dancing in the corners of his vision? Never mind that for now. "I don't wanna have another fight in here _again_. Let's take this upstairs or outside or whatever. Just … not here…"

Bill and Ford spared Stanley concerned looks.

"Stanley–"

"Kid, are you okay?"

No, he was most definitely _not_ okay but that wasn't the point right now. Or maybe he could use this. Play it up, keep them from going for each other's throats for just a few minutes so he could think of something that would make everything even a little bit better.

But in the end, he didn't need to pretend. He took two steps forward and his vision flickered, turning fuzzy and dark. Something tickled at his nape and he remembered he was still bleeding.

He fell forward, felt cool air brush past him as a strong pair of arms and two twiggy ones catch him before he could hit the ground. Even as he passed out, he could hear shouts, angry words being exchanged, sarcastic bites.

Stanley just felt very, very tired.

,

,

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Bill has a lot of lies to answer to, now that Stanford's here to set everything straight. And also, yeah, Bill did consider crushing Stanley for a moment there.

Once again, thank you so much for reading this. I hope you liked it, even if most of it ran through much of the same timeline as the first chapter.


	3. Ford-A Different World

_Residue_

* * *

,

,

Stanford Pines gave up around the same time he stopped counting the days. The day he woke up and simply didn't bother, instead going straight into cleaning up his little camp to get ready to move again. The day his mind hardened to accommodate its constant alertness, the feeling of danger and the hunger for survival. He documented everything he came across, he fought, he ran away from bounty hunters, he lived life knowing each moment could be his last.

And then, he was home. He was in his basement and there was Stanley, standing right in front of him, smiling wide, with his arms stretched out. It was beautiful, it was amazing, it was–

Completely impossible.

Maybe it was the old resentment bubbling up to the surface again, piled on top of each other on a thin wire strung too tight. Maybe it was the strain of running for his life every day and the suspicion that lay in suddenly finally being granted what he'd wanted for so much for so long. Maybe it was the fact that he was tipsy from that bottle of alien liquor he'd managed to snag the last time he was passing through a city. Whatever the case, he marched up to Stanley or what might have been Stanley – with an enemy like Bill, no one could ever be too sure – and punched him.

And it _must_ have been Stanley, because the man fell back, hit his head hard on the edge of a console. Stanford eased somewhat then, stepped forward to maybe apologize maybe scold his twin for what he's done.

But before he could even let the words out of his mouth, something crashed into him from behind. Something big and red with large hands that grabbed him and lifted him off the floor where he landed. Ford shouted, cursed, confusion and anger morphing into utter panic and fear as he turned around, only to come face to face with the reason for this mess.

For a moment, just one moment, his words deserted him.

 _Desolation_.

He'd failed. Bill was in their dimension. After all this time, after all this effort, Stanford had _failed_. The world would end.

But he saw his brother, blinking dazedly on the ground, and something inside Ford slotted back into place. He kicked Bill in the eye with as much strength as he could muster in his position, relishing the roar of pain it elicited from the demon.

With some difficulty, Ford reached to his back, taking out his gun. He pointed it at Bill. It might not kill him, but it was a good weapon and it might just stun Bill long enough to throw him out of the dimension.

And then Bill ate it.

He ate Ford's gun.

He fucking _ate_ Ford's _gun_.

And Bill laughed at his look of utter horror.

Ford, perhaps out of pure spite, took out a large knife and stabbed Bill's hand with it.

Interestingly, despite having a physical form now, Bill didn't bleed.

Distantly, Ford heard the portal powering down not too far away and he couldn't help the panic that rose up into his throat because _no_ , how were they going to get rid of Bill now?! But those thoughts were relegated to the bottom of his priority ladder as Bill began trying to stuff _Ford_ into his mouth.

What was _with_ Bill today?! He didn't usually try to eat things, he didn't usually want to even _touch_ things, let alone put them in his _mouth_. And why the hell was he so angry, anyway? He was getting what he wanted, wasn't he? A way into their world?

"Stanley, run!"

Except, to his horror, when Stanley rose up from the ground, he didn't move away. Instead, he moved _closer_ , and with every step that drew him nearer, Ford could see every horrible way Bill could hurt him, break him, laugh over the remains of his brother's corpse.

" _No_ , you _idiot_ , save yourself!"

If Stanley heard him, he didn't act like it. A wild, frustrated scream tore out of Ford at his twin's stupidity, at this false sense of bravado, at everything that made them brothers because oh, God, Stanford should never have dragged him into all this! He watched in horror as his twin walked up to them and began beating his fists on Bill, yelling things Ford didn't have the state of mind to decipher.

Bill stopped, looked down at Stan with one black eye. Ford's heart leaped into his throat, beating wildly, the blood rushing loud in his ears.

 _STANLEY!_

But then, just as Ford thought Bill was going to crush him in one hand, he began to shrink. Bill turned yellow again, the white of his eye reappearing. And Stanley … had his hand on Bill?

"Stanley…?" he breathed. This was … what was happening? They knew each other already? But _how_?

…Well, no, 'how' was a stupid question, what with the shrine Ford had practically built for Bill, now that he thought about it. As well-hidden as his study had been, Stanley must have found it after a while. Must have ignored the warnings, much like Ford had so foolishly done.

A sick feeling began forming in the pit of his stomach – did Bill trick Stanley, too? Was that what made all this possible?

Ford's train of thought was interrupted as he was thrown into the ground. He stood, wincing, irritated at the sound of Bill's chuckle. That bastard wouldn't get away with this for long. Surely, Stanley could sense the wrongness of Bill? Not that Ford had, but Stanley had always been the twin who was better at reading people.

Still, Ford swallowed, needing to be sure, needing to be _wrong_. "Stanley, what the hell did you _do_?" His brother hissed something under his breath but Ford wouldn't have it. "Did you make a deal with Bill? Is that it?"

 _That_ seemed to pull Stan up short. He spluttered denial and confusion that just _didn't make sense_. If it wasn't a deal, then what was it?

"We didn't make a deal, IQ," Bill scoffed, still mocking Ford after all this time. He was smaller now, and floating off the ground. "Stop exaggerating my awfulness."

What the-? " _Exaggerating_?!"

His voice most definitely did _not_ crack.

But just as he was about to sock Bill in the eye, Stanley intervened.

And then he fainted.

"What did you do to him? _What did you do_?!" Stanford roared at Bill who had the utter _gall_ to reach out and catch his brother as well. He swore, if Bill did _anything_ to Stanley, he'd – he'd–

"What did _I_ do?! What did _you_ do?!" Bill snapped back. "You hit him!"

Stanford pressed down the need to justify himself to the fucking triangle whose entire fault this mess was. It wasn't important anyway, he'd just explain himself to Stanley. Because he did have a valid reason for what he did. But Bill? Bill didn't deserve that explanation.

And then a tiny fist connected with his cheek. It was comparatively weak with what Bill was doing earlier, but it still felt like a very painful slap.

Despite not having eyebrows or a mouth, Bill managed to look absolutely livid. "He's _bleeding_!"

"What? He's not–" _Oh_. Oh, yes. Yes, Stanley was bleeding from his head, blood dripping down the back of his neck. "Stanley! _Stanley_ , can you hear me?" Desperately, Ford shook his brother.

No response. Hit on the head and out like a light, not good not good _not good_. "I need to take him to the hospital."

"No shit, genius!"

Something inside Ford felt like it was dangerously close to snapping but Stanley was here and he was bleeding out and maybe hit his head seriously and he didn't have _time_ for Bill's games so he inhaled then exhaled, all the while glaring at the floating triangle who glared back at him. "I'll take Stanley to the hospital. You…" He faltered then, the realization hitting him. What was Bill still doing here? Why wasn't he cutting their dimension into ribbons and letting his friends through? Why wasn't he being … well, _Bill_?

"I'm going with you."

What.

Stanford resumed glaring at him. "If you think I'll let you anywhere _near_ Stanley, you–"

"Oh, can it, Sixer. Are we going to the hospital or not?"

" _I_ am going to the hospital with Stanley. _You_ are staying well away from us."

"Is that so?" Bill suddenly grew in size, his eye turning black. He loomed over Ford, who swallowed, remembering again just exactly _what_ Bill was … and that he now had a physical presence in this dimension. "Well, **I'd like to see you** _ **make**_ _ **me**_."

Ford tightened his grip around Stanley and wished he'd never found that damned cave.

,

Stanley lay on the hospital bed, peacefully asleep as any person in a (hopefully) temporary coma could be. Blissfully unaware of his twin brother pacing around the room, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. Over by the nightstand, Bill sat with his legs swung over the edge, his full attention on Stanley. He'd been about to seat himself next to Stanley's head, right on the pillow, when Stanford picked him up and tossed him onto the floor with a guttural warning. Revenge for earlier, as it was, although Ford would have preferred just throwing him out the window.

How, why and when – these were the questions he needed to ask. Unfortunately, he wouldn't trust any answer from Bill and Stanley was still unconscious. It was a bad hit, the nurses told Ford while Bill glared a hole into his back with one eye. Ford was surprised when he didn't smell actual smoke, but maybe that was just the guilt. But, he reasoned, Stanley had quite a few things to answer for as well. Like why he _faked his own death and was currently posing as Ford._ The paperwork alone was going to be a nightmare.

And what did he do to his house?! It looked like some sort of tourist trap! All of Ford's relics, his _research_ -!

" _What_?!" Ford growled when he caught Bill looking at him again. He didn't like the expression he had. It was dark, angry.

Resentful.

Which was absolutely ridiculous because what did _Bill_ of all people have to be resentful about? He'd gotten exactly what he wanted. What was he waiting for? Or was this all another game or a dream or – or–

"You could have at least hugged him back."

Ford stared at Bill. "What?"

"Kid's been working day and night for you four years straight. The least you could have done was give him a hug."

 _Kid_? "I am not talking to _you_ about this," Ford seethed.

"Even a smile would have been enough."

" _Stop_."

"But _noooo_ , you just had to sock him in the–"

"Will you just be _QUIET_?!"

Lo and behold, silence actually did descend between them, only penetrated by the sound of Ford's heavy breathing. Still, Bill's gaze lay heavily on him, a silent accusation. Alright, so maybe it was wrong for Ford to hit Stanley so soon after coming back. But he was going to apologize! He might have been tipsy then and half-convinced it was either a dream or a trick or _both_ but he would have apologized if he'd been given enough time to! And maybe he and Stanley could have made up then, and put this entire catastrophe behind them. But they couldn't because Bill was here like some sort of poltergeist that refused to fade. They couldn't because of whatever Bill and Stanley now had between them, whether it was a deal or something more covert, maybe more insidious.

Ford leaned back on the wall, putting his head in his hands. He never should have sent that postcard. He should've just stuffed the journal somewhere, maybe burned it, maybe locked it up in a box and thrown it into the ocean himself – maybe throw _himself_ into the ocean.

He closed his eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace. But the constant beeping of the monitor was a constant, irritating reminder of where he was and why he was here and just _who_ was here with him. Ford had been to a medical facility in one of the more advanced civilizations he'd happened upon. It would have blown away any doctor on earth and he wasn't ashamed to admit that he himself had been somewhat disappointed when he'd been forced to move on. He still had his notes from there, though, and the experience he'd managed to gain throughout his time beyond the portal. At this point, he could probably take care of Stanley just as well at his home – maybe even better than the hospital. He actually would have preferred to treat Stanley at home except the house lacked the appropriate equipment for such a thing, and he didn't want to take any chances.

Not when it concerned his brother.

Finally, he opened his eyes, heart calm but determined. He looked straight in the eye, six-fingered hands curling into fists. "I don't know what you want from Stanley or what kind of game you're trying to play right now, but I promise I will stop you. No matter what it takes."

And then Bill rolled his eye. "Come _on_ , Sixer, you have _got_ to stop being such a drama queen."

Bill dodged out of the way just as Stanford lunged for him, hands outstretched, ready to tear apart his little triangle body. " _Hey_! Watch the hat!"

A few choice curses Ford had picked up on his travels might have slipped out, louder than he'd meant. How he could ever have considered something as stupidly annoying and evil as Bill to possibly be his friend was beyond him now. Even Bill's oddly-pitched voice grated on his nerves. Almost out of spite, Ford swiped at the small, black top hat that always floating just above Bill's head.

"Careful, now, Sixer," Bill teased, floating _just_ out of reach, "Or you might pop a vein."

"You're just as annoying as I remember," Ford growled, trying to calm himself. The last thing he needed was to get thrown out of the room. If he wasn't careful, he might just get himself locked up in the mental ward. "Just go back to the hole you crawled from."

" _Well_ , if my memory's not too rusty, I think I can remember you coming from the same–"

"Is there a problem, Mr. Pines?"

Stanford turned his attention to the stern-looking middle-aged nurse and gave her a somewhat pained smile. "Nothing at all … Roxanne," he said, quickly scanning her nametag. "I'm afraid I was just in a … very intense phone call."

To her credit, even though she didn't look like she believed him in the least, Roxanne nodded after a hesitant pause and left. Good. He didn't think he could handle Bill _and_ someone questioning him about arguing with something no one else could see. At least, unless Bill decided to show himself. Ford had a very sure feeling, though, that the damned triangle would find too much amusement in seeing him locked up somewhere in a straightjacket. The cherry on top of his cake.

Speaking of… "What are you still doing here, anyway?" Ford asked, turning back to Bill as he lowered his voice to a growl. "I thought you'd have better things to do than bother my brother and I once you'd gained access to our dimension."

"Believe me, I thought so, too."

Ford waited for a long moment before prompting, "But…?"

Bill folded his arms. "What I do or don't do is none of your business, six-fingers."

"It _is_ if it means you'll be hounding us for an indefinite amount of time!"

"I'm sorry, _who_ , exactly, landed Stanley in the hospital in the first place? Oh, yeah, it was _you_! No 'hello', no 'thank you Stanley', nothing, just socked him in the jaw like no time's passed since your brawl that landed you in the portal in the first place!"

" _And why does that matter to you so much_?!" Ford ran his fingers through his hair, tempted to pull it all out as his defensiveness rose. "You got what you wanted because of it, didn't you?! So why are you still here and why are you angry? For God's sake, why did you try to _eat_ me? Just leave us alone!"

Bill flexed his hands, images flashing in his eye. Disturbingly, Ford thought he saw a blade flash by but shook away the thought. If Bill wanted to kill him – and he so obviously did right now, so why wasn't he doing anything? – then he wouldn't need a weapon to finish the job.

Vaguely, Ford wondered if being in their dimension meant that Bill now had a digestion system. A small shudder slid down his spine.

"If it's a deal … I can…" But he faltered. What could Ford possibly offer Bill now? How could he get Stanley out of whatever he'd gotten himself mixed up in?

Bill scoffed. "It ain't that simple, IQ. What Stanley and I've got? It's gonna last 'til the end of his days." His stare became piercing, searing into Ford. "And there isn't anything you can do about it."

"But … no," Ford breathed. "There has to be a loophole. I-I'll ask Stanley just what the terms of your deal are and we'll find a way out of it! We'll defeat you!"

"Oh, Sixer, you still think you're some kind of hero? That's cute." Bill floated down to Ford's eye level, so close that Ford could see his face reflected in Bill's eye. "But this story doesn't need a hero and I'm here to stay."

"You're here to destroy everything."

" _Hey_! I was going to make things fun! You humans could do with a little of it." Bill floated back to Stanley, a touch of emotion showing in his featureless eye. It made Ford bristle, even as he felt uncomfortable – like _he_ was the one who didn't belong. "But if that's what you're worried about, then don't." Bill paused, something quieter entering his voice as he said, "the party's been canceled."

And Stanford found that he couldn't understand. So he settled himself back into the chair by the hospital bed, laced his fingers and watched helplessly as Bill placed himself near Stanley's neck. It felt ominous, felt like a mistake that all he could do was sit and argue with Bill but when had their dynamic ever been any different? Bill had always been unreachable for Stanford, had always had the power in their mockery of a friendship. Once, Ford had thought Bill respected him enough not to use any of those powers. Now, Stanley had fallen into the exact same trap.

Ford buried his face in his hands, trying to blot out the image of Bill staring down at Stan with a strange look in his eye. A look that Ford didn't want to understand even if, deep down, he felt that maybe he could.

,

Ford woke up on a desert plain, disoriented, squinting in the glaring sunlight. His mouth was parched, his breaths short and fast. He could feel his clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

But... no. No! He was _home_ , he _saw_ Stanley – _hit_ him, even. And everything was wrong because apparently, Stanley had posed as Ford while he'd been gone and Bill had gotten a personality transplant and everything had been made worse by his return home. He was home but the world could end.

And now, he was here. Back in one of the first dimensions he'd stumbled into those first few weeks beyond the portal.

Like some sort of great, cosmic joke. But that was what he was, wasn't he? Stanford Pines, clown of the universe. Betrayed by his brother, betrayed by his friend, tricked by a demon and then shoved into a place beyond human imagination by previously mentioned brother. And then, he came back to find that his life had been taken over and – and –

A clawed hand dug into his shoulder from behind.

" _AGH_!"

Ford shot up from the bed. He panted hard, sweat dripping down his back, as his eyes registered the dark room, the mattress he lay on, the soft, slight light falling through the open window.

He _was_ home.

He was home.

Ford gathered himself together, managing to let himself lie back on the mattress after the tense moment had passed. He focused on his breathing, counted sheep, pretended that he wasn't overly aware of every rustle and every shift in the shadows. He'd been sent home after visiting hours had passed, although as usual, Bill had conveniently hidden himself away from anyone else's eyes. He was probably still at the hospital, watching Stanley sleep like some sort of creep while he plotted whatever he was scheming these days. Bill had acted strangely all day, only adding to the feeling of unreality of everything. Somehow, a part of Ford would have been less surprised if he'd actually woken up in one of his temporary camps or in the middle of a plain where he might have initially collapsed. But no, Stanford was here, really here on his earth, and Stanley was in a coma because of…

What, exactly?

…Well, because of Ford's somewhat inebriated state, for the most part. Even Ford had been surprised at the indignation that had risen when he'd spotted his twin. Maybe that was why he hadn't been able to stop himself in time.

He sighed, turning on his side. He was back on earth but everything had somehow taken a turn for the worst. Bill was here and acting out a different kind of insanity, Ford had put Stanley in a coma, and he still desperately needed to figure out just _what the heck Stanley had done to his house_.

Finally, with a defeated sigh, he sat up on the bed and fumbled for his glasses.

Surely, Stan would have kept his liquor cabinet well-stocked, wouldn't he?

,

,

* * *

 **Author's Note** : So, I had a bit of a hard time pinning down Stanford's personality and even now, I'm not so sure I got it all right.

Thanks again for reading 'Residue'! Feedback is greatly appreciated.


	4. Shermie-Christmas Chapter

_Residue_

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It's Christmas Eve.

Santa and the season's classic hymns fill the house along with the smell of freshly baked goods. A nativity scene is set up on the mantel, and neatly wrapped presents under the fir tree. There's a wreath on the front door, mistletoe over the fireplace, candles on the table – as well as an extra plate and utensils.

Sherman Pines sits in the armchair, pretending to read a book as he waits for his younger brother. Arguably, his only younger brother at this point.

And maybe that's why. Why he suddenly, almost desperately reached out to Stanford again after these years of silence. Why he had tried again after giving up on a brother who seemed intent on hiding himself away in his house in Oregon. Why he'd been so overjoyed when he finally said _yes_. It's still bittersweet but it's something. A new start that would hopefully be better than it was when it ended.

For a moment, Sherman's excitement dims at the thought of Stanley. There's a pain in his chest and a lump in his throat whenever he does, that hasn't gone away even after these handful of months that he's really been … _gone_. And maybe there's something slightly bitter, something resentful that this is the year that Stanford has finally begun accepting his invitations.

Someone shouldn't have to _die_ first for something like that.

But he shakes that line of thought away and tells himself that he's grateful to finally be able to reconnect with Stanford. That this is the silver lining to one of the most awful things that has ever happened to them.

A second chance – before it's too late.

Sherman still doesn't know what happened to Stanley the day of the accident. The police had suspected foul play but the investigation had led nowhere and eventually, the case was just … dropped.

Someone _murdered his brother_ and no one can figure out who did it or why.

Today is Christmas Eve and Sherman Pines wonders how they'll fare. But he's grateful, or at least he tells himself he is, that he still has … _most_ of his family.

It's Christmas Eve and they're not complete and he thinks about the uncle that his kids will never have but everything will be okay somehow because they, the ones who remain, will be together for it. And they'll remember Stanley, they'll smile and laugh and trade jokes and stories, keeping him alive in their memories. Sherman likes that thought, of the warmth that's been missing since the night he came back and found everything in ruins.

It's Christmas Eve, and he thinks about family and resentment and pride and all it ever did for them and decides that it's time to make a change. Silently, he thinks of all the half-baked but sincere arguments he'll present to Stanford to stay until the New Year and maybe even a little after. Ford was never a sentimental man, but Sherman remembers how well he'd been with Alex on his birthday and he thinks that maybe he can convince his brother this time.

The doorbell rings. Sherman lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and stands to answer it. And his brother stands there, gifts in hand, a duffel bag hanging from his shoulder, a tentative smile on his face. "Hi, Shermie," Ford says. "Merry Christmas."

Shermie's missed this, and still misses the slightly rougher voice that never used to be too far away from it. But he wears the largest grin he's had in a while even as he brings Ford in for a large hug because maybe, just maybe, a part of him still didn't expect him to show. But he's here and he's trying, they're both trying – for what exactly, Sherman's not completely sure but he decides it doesn't really matter. He brings his brother inside the house and they laugh and they talk, safe from the cold.

,

Later that night, while the kids and his wife sleep soundly in their beds, Sherman catches Stanford staring at one of the photographs on the wall. It's an old one, taken before – well, before everything. It's them, all of them, back when they were still a real family so many years ago. And isn't it strange, to be so happy in the present but still want the past so badly?

"Hey," Sherman says, startling Ford out of his thoughts. He places a hand on his younger brother's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I miss him, too."

Ford just hangs his head, silent, and Sherman finds himself giving his brother an awkward, one-armed hug. "It's going to be alright," he promises. "Even if it doesn't feel like it now, and that's okay." Because time will pass and while Shermie doesn't have a doubt that there will always be something missing, maybe someday the empty space will stop feeling like a gaping hole as the pain turns into something bittersweet.

They're Pines, after all. They're strong. And they can get through this together.

For a long time, they both look at the old photograph, reminiscing of the good old days when there were three instead of two. Shermie's eyes gravitate towards the figure with the mischievous grin and bright eyes as he stood among his family. He gives it a soft, wistful smile.

 _Merry Christmas, Stanley._

,

,

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Thank you so much for the feedback, I hope you all enjoyed this extra chapter.

Merry Christmas, everyone~!


	5. Bill-Attachments

_Residue_

(Also: Guess whose laptop got a virus that kept the documents from opening up for about a week or so~)

* * *

,

,

A long time ago, when Ford's leftover emotions were still something Bill could laugh at with impunity, he used to replay the memory of Stanley's departure over and over again. To feel the anger and the guilt clash inside as he turned away from the window, the false self-reassurances that Stanley would be fine even though there was no logical way that he would be. It had been the start of an ever-deepening pit that Ford dug for himself each day until it got easier except when it wasn't. The nights when he'd wake up from a nightmare about Stanley dead or angry or somehow worse than any of those things were few and far in between, especially after so many years but they still happened, particularly if something reminded Ford of his brother.

Honestly, it was one of the most amusing things about Ford. And when he'd gone through the portal – _pushed_ , by the brother he'd summoned to his home, wasn't that just delicious? – Stanley had been left behind to pick up the pieces and make do with what he'd been left with.

It wasn't as if Bill didn't know. As if he didn't know that Stanley would move the universe for Ford, despite every warning. As if he didn't know that he would give everything up for someone who was obviously just using him as the means to an end. That no matter how badly life had beaten up Stanley over the years, he'd gather all his strength to get back up again just a brother who had left the dimension in the middle of brawling with him.

It was hilarious.

Except when it wasn't.

Bill had never possessed anyone for quite as long as he had with Ford and the effect was … considerable, to say the least. Ford's emotions were contradictory at best when it came to Stanley and it was difficult to decide sometimes whether he wanted to strangle the fool for emptying the liquor cabinet or hover awkwardly over him as he had another one of his breakdowns. And, of course, there was Bill himself who didn't have anything better to do but there were getting to be times when he didn't quite appreciate the way the emotions were wreaking havoc inside him. Little doses were good, sometimes big ones, too, but not … this. Not so strongly and so constantly. This was painful in a way he had never wanted to feel again, bringing to life feelings and memories that he had long buried.

So, eventually, he decided to hate Stanley. A weak choice, but it was easy, was what Stanford and so many others had done in the past but hey, no one ever said Bill wasn't some sort of bastard. In fact, everyone ended up saying that at least once in their lives, if they lived long enough to say it.

But the love was still there – Ford's love, disgusting as it was. A contradiction to the resentment and anger he still held against Stanley. And with that love came guilt that nothing Bill could do to wash his hands off. It was infuriating but easy to bury just like it was easy to hate Stan. Easy, as long as you didn't mind the way the hate seemed to poison you – but then, emotions were like that. They stained you, dyed you different little colors, not necessarily pretty ones or ones that went well together. They just … stuck – intricately, paradoxically, for better or worse.

In retrospect, Bill really shouldn't have possessed someone like Stanford so often and for so long.

That was how he existed back then, hovering over Stanley, compelled to watch over him but deciding to hate him all the same. The guilt, the anger, the disappointment and sense of betrayal always came back to life whenever he saw Stanley but he told himself he was above that. So he scoffed at the idiot working to destroy the earth to save his brother. He would visit Stanley in his dreams, sometimes, interact with him a bit. Stanley was irritating, a complete fool who didn't appreciate the gravity of repeatedly snatching Bill's hat – but then, it wasn't as if he ever did anything about it – but Bill visited anyway. It helped Stanley, or at least he thought it did and something about that made him cheer up a little, too.

Ford really was weird.

But regardless of any internal conflict inside Bill, time passed and as it did, Stanley worked. To the bone, to the point of collapse, he never let up and with each passing day, he cracked a little deeper. Bill knew people were only so strong, had himself driven Ford and so many others in the past mad, almost or completely. He broke them as much as he needed or wanted to, knew that each person had their limits. And maybe that was where he'd gone all wrong because that was also when the bits of Ford that had stuck to Bill and stained him said that Stanley was strong. Stanley could take care of himself and if he had a hard time, then he deserved it. He should have studied harder, paid more attention in class, stayed in school, stayed the hell away from his damned project–!

…Yeah. Sixer had issues. A _lot_ of issues.

And then, just like Bill knew he would, just like Stanford's emotions had vehemently denied, Stanley broke.

,

It happened during an almost ridiculously normal evening with normal weather and normal news on the radio. The crickets chirped as a gentle breeze brushed through the woods. Nothing about it was remarkable except for what was happening in the basement of a rundown shack built deep inside a forest in Oregon.

Stanley … had not been himself those past few days but if there was anything that Bill had learned over the years, it was that humans were fickle and taciturn. So it wasn't until Stan had sat down on the workbench as usual in an inebriated state with a knife in hand that he realized there was something seriously wrong.

Except, Bill reasoned, Stanley wouldn't do anything to himself. There was Ford to think about, after all, Stanley would do anything for Ford, even if it killed him. He wouldn't do anything to himself so long as Ford remained trapped beyond the portal. A man who would leave everything because of a postcard containing two words from someone who hadn't bothered contacting him for ten years wouldn't do something so selfish.

But the look in Stanley's eyes cast doubt inside Bill. There was something in them that he disliked, that he distrusted. It was … heavy, contemplative, and something inside him squirmed as he found himself flexing his hands, a torrent of emotion rising inside him.

Stanley's eyes glistened with tears as he brought the knife up to his throat.

And Bill was _afraid_. Different reactions and sentences flashed in his mind, considered and discarded fast but not fast enough. A small trickle of blood made its way down Stanley's throat. The knife slid deeper into Stanley's flesh, drawing more blood, a silent horror to all of Ford that was in Bill. Then suddenly, so suddenly that he might have laughed if the situation weren't so serious, the pieces of Ford inside Bill didn't hate Stanley at all. Hurting, guilty, betrayed and resentful? Yes. But he didn't hate Stanley, not at that moment.

Maybe he never did.

" _What do you think you're doing_?"

And of course Stanley didn't believe he was real but that didn't matter as long as Bill got him to _stop_ , please just _stop_. When the tears came, dripping from the cracks in Stanley's fingers as he hid his face in his hands, something painful rose inside Bill. Something broken and sad that filled him and left him feeling hollow at the same time.

Gently, he rose, awkwardly hugging Stanley and trying to hush him like he'd seen so many human mothers do. The whole patting the hair and rubbing the back deal. It was strange, an unfamiliar package of gestures but it seemed to help. It took a while but Stanley eventually quieted, leaving the basement silent except for the sound of his breathing and the beating of his heart. And Bill closed his eye, never letting go as he tried to calm his own mind, tried to separate himself from Ford's emotions but found them too deeply intertwined, too disturbed, anxious, _ashamed_ to easily do so.

In retrospect, that night was probably his first step into the blink of madness that was the life of Stanley Pines.

,

They've come a long way since that night. It had been difficult at first, coaxing Stanley back to himself. He didn't eat, didn't move more than he needed to, only slept and stared at Bill, still convinced at the time that he was nothing more than a hallucination. But Bill wouldn't stand for the silence, the kind of silence that had led to this … mood of Stanley's in the first place. So Bill talked. He talked and talked and talked, thankful that he didn't have an actual mouth to go dry. Whenever Stanley was awake, Bill dispelled the silence with a one-sided conversation that almost never let up for more than a few minutes. It was desperation, it was a way of coping with his own panic.

His own fear.

Bill had never been so helpless in the face of any situation before. He always had a plan B, someone to manipulate, something that could be offered in exchange for what he wanted. But with Stanley, there was absolutely, maddeningly nothing he could do to make anything better. Only speak and hope that his words crowded Stanley's mind enough to keep any dangerous thoughts away.

When he noticed the eviction notice lying innocently on the table was early afternoon and realized all that it stood for, he wished he could tear it apart and burn the pieces. Stanley needed a job, _bad_. A legitimate one that would keep on reaping a considerable profit.

But first, he needed to live long enough to find one.

And Bill, as helpless as any mental projection, did the best that he possibly could.

,

"Good morning, Stanley!"

Silence.

Then–

"Good morning, Bill."

It shouldn't have felt like such a victory.

,

He looked at Stanley within his mindscape now, and wondered where all their progress had gone. The younger Pines twin had been strong and happy the last time they'd met here. The kid was full of cheer at the very real prospect of seeing his twin again, at the accomplishment of doing so.

But now, Stanley was curled up in space, the broken symbols of his childhood dreams surrounding him. Only his car remained untouched. Now, he was small, his eyes unseeing even as he looked at Bill.

"Hey, kid."

"Bill," he said, his voice muted.

Pushing down his fury, Bill floated towards Stanley, ruffled his hair somewhat playfully. "Come on, Stan! What's got you so down?"

For a while, such a long while that Bill was uncomfortably reminded of Stan's muteness those few days, the kid was silent. But finally: "What do you think will happen now?"

"Hmm?"

"Now that Ford's here," Stanley clarified, avoiding Bill's eyes, "What do you think he'll do?"

"I'm still not sure what you mean by that."

"I mean–" Stanley gestured wildly at himself, at the shattered bits of the shack that lay around them. "I mean, he's obviously not going to let me keep the Mystery Shack going. And he hates you – and he doesn't need anything from me anymore." His voice dropped to a whisper. "D'you think he's gonna kick me out?"

Ah. So that was what this was. Stanley was afraid of the past repeating itself, and perhaps not without good reason; it had been an honest, if somewhat monumental, mistake that landed him homeless at seventeen, after all.

Never mind the fact that said mistake may or may not have had Bill's hand in it.

"Maybe," Bill said with a shrug. "And maybe not. Who knows?" If he had lips, he would have pursed them, as he struggled to admit, "He did look pretty worried for you when you passed out."

"Really?"

The hopefulness that grew in the kid's eyes was almost painful.

"Yeah – we both were. Concussions aren't a laughing matter, kid." Bill looked away. Stanley could have so easily died then, a fact that Bill hadn't known at the time until Stanford had shouted the information to him. The knowledge had set him on edge all the way to the hospital and while the doctors had evaluated Stan's condition. In those moments, he didn't think he'd ever hated anyone more than he hated Stanford.

It wasn't that Bill thought he was a good caretaker, or that he even thought he was a good person – of everything he could lie about, he could at least admit that to himself. But something inside him bristled at all the verbal as well as silent accusations Stanford sent his way. As if Stanford had done any better for his brother over the past fourteen years. As if, the one time he had reached out, he'd done more than make Stanley his errand boy.

"You scared us, kid," Bill said, seriously and honestly in the way he usually was with Stanley in these sorts of conversations. He sort of made it a point not to have them.

A small laugh escaped Stan then, and Bill brightened because it was _real_.

"I'm fine," Stanley said, breaking the companionable silence that had settled between them. There was warm life in the kid's eye, life that Bill had painstakingly nurtured over these four years and that he would be damned to see extinguished. "But thanks." He hesitated before adding, "For everything."

Gently, Bill squeezed his shoulder. "Any time, kid. Any time."

,

Sinewy, brown flesh knitted itself together as bones formed the structure. Veins and blood vessels embedded themselves inside the meat and bones, brown hair sprouted on a previously bald scalp.

Meanwhile, Bill hummed to himself. The form he was restructuring himself into wasn't the most flattering – well, to be honest, it wasn't attractive to him at all even if it was the norm for humans – but it would let him get closer to Stanley. The next step, one might say. He was here already, after all, in body and mind, so he might as well do something more productive than remain a triangle if he wasn't going to take over the world.

Wouldn't Stanley be pleased? They'd look so alike now. Not like twins, by any means – that would be too strange, even for Bill – but similar. Related.

Bill stumbled through the forest, experimenting with his limbs. The rush of unfamiliar sensations bombarded him, making him almost dizzy with the overload of information. But he kept himself together, made some clothes for himself while he was at it, and took himself to the nearby lake. He stared at his rippling reflection in the water, observed the feathery brown hair falling over his eyes, the oddity of having a bone structure…

"Oh, hello there! Are you new in town?"

Bill straightened up, turning around to face the newcomer. He was a cheery-looking old man with a fishing rod and a tackle box.

A wide grin split Bill's lip and he relished in the small pain that told him once again that he was _real_ , never mind the odd look the man gave him. "Why, yes, sir! Yes, I am." He donned a sheepish expression. "I'm actually supposed to be visiting family right now but I got a little lost. Do you think you could help me out by pointing out the directions to the Gravity Falls general hospital?"

The man smiled kindly, with perhaps a little pity in his eyes as he said, "Well, son, if you're looking for the hospital, it's on the other side of town, not too far away from the firehouse. What might your name be, young man?" He squinted at Bill slightly. "I daresay, you look familiar."

Throwing all care to the wind as he thought of Stanley's delight and Ford's fury at what he was doing now, Bill shook the elderly man's outstretched hand, all but declaring, "William Cipher Pines, sir, but everybody calls me Bill."

,

Stanley was going to wake up today. Bill had made sure of it. He smiled at the thought as he sat on a chair by the hospital bed though it faded somewhat when he saw the scar on the side of Stan's neck, memories of that night rushing back. Almost gingerly, he brushed his fingertips against the scar as he pressed his lips into a hard line.

" _What the hell do you think you're doing here_?"

Bill stiffened at the almost wild voice, so like Stanley's but not – a mockery, smoother and more articulated than Stanley's gruff speech. He turned around and gave Sixer a honey-sweet smile laced with poison. "Oh, hey there, Ford. Where've you been?"

Stanford, for his part, was completely out of breath as he leaned on the doorway, huffing and puffing like he'd ran all the way up to the hospital room. And he probably had. He didn't look like he'd gotten any sleep last night, either, just like almost every night in his life nowadays. Which, Bill could admit, was mostly his fault. Ford walked into the room, glaring so hatefully at Bill that the phrase 'if looks could kill' came to mind. Bill simply smiled back, lifting a finger to his lips.

"You wouldn't want the nurses to throw you out for improper conduct, now, do you?"

 _Too late_ – Stanford grabbed the collar of Bill's shirt, pulling him up from the chair and threw him towards the exit. Bill stumbled but managed to regain his balance.

"I thought I told you to _stay away from my family_."

"Your family?" Bill laughed scornfully. "The family you abandoned for ten years? The family you didn't bother keeping in contact with once you left for college? _That_ family, Sixer?" He sidestepped the fist aimed at his nose. "Geez, IQ, when did you get so violent?"

"I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing," Ford growled, "But I refuse to be a part of it. Now, _get out_!"

"Oh, Ford, Ford, Ford, Ford, Ford, _Ford_! This is _so much more_ than a game to me, don't you understand?"

"Then _what do you want_?!"

"Are you two fighting _again_?"

Bill and Ford both immediately turned to see the sleepy-eyed man blinking at them from the hospital bed.

"Stanley!"

"Kid!"

Both of them moved towards Stanley but stopped when they noticed each other's movements. A small staring match commenced in which Bill broke off early so as to rush to Stan's side first.

"Kid, you're awake!"

Stanley squinted. In an uncertain voice, he said, "Bill? Is that you?"

"Sure am." Bill grinned, jerking his thumbs at himself. "Guess which triangle got himself a human form!"

The corners of Stanley's mouth pulled upwards slightly. But then, his eyes drifted towards Ford before flitting to the window. Bill grit his teeth but tried not to let it get the best of him. Really, it would just be better if Sixer went back through the portal. Everything was _fine_ before he came back. Well, maybe not _completely_ fine but Stanley wasn't … wasn't… He wasn't safe now. Ford, he would uproot everything Stanley had built for himself these four years because Stan was right, he wouldn't let the Mystery Shack go on, not now that he was here. He had already trampled on Stanley's childhood dreams, wrecked the hope of truly connecting with his twin again, and surely he would now disregard the life Stanley had managed to make for himself in this town in much the same way he'd decided to cut himself off from his family fourteen years ago. Ford was selfish, thoughtless, _destructive_.

He wasn't good for Stanley.

But Bill could take care of him, _would_ take care of him no matter what anyone else had to say about it. Make him as happy as he was capable. Three years back, anticipating a similar event, Bill had taken the opportunity to make some monetarily favorable deals. There was a bank account under Bill's name – if everything really went south, plan B was ready and waiting in the wings. He could take Stanley, get on a boat and disappear from Ford's life forever. Or, at least, until Stanley died.

He didn't know what he'd do once Stanley died.

But that wouldn't happen for a long time. A very, _very_ long time. He shook himself out of his thoughts just in time to hear Stanley ask, "How long was I out?"

"Almost three days," Ford answered stiffly before easing a bit. "How do you feel?"

"Fine, mostly."

He could thank Bill for that in another conversation. For now, Bill leaned forward to lightly ruffle Stanley's hair. "Of course you do! That thick skull of yours can take a heck of a lot more than _that_."

"Hey!" Stanley laughed, playfully swatting Bill's hand.

Bill stumbled back as Sixer yanked him away from Stan. Damn it, he almost ripped the shirt! He whipped around, growled, "What is it _now_?!"

The look of utter fury on Ford's face was adorable in the way that made a hissing kitten adorable. "I told you to stay _away_ from him."

"Come on, Ford," Stanley said uneasily. "Bill's the only reason I got you out at all."

Oh, no.

" _Is he now_?" Ford hissed, practically spitting.

Definitely a kitten.

Bill rolled his eyes – and wasn't that strange, having two eyes? "Come on, Sixer, who else was going to help him out? The poor guy only had a third of the portal's blueprints."

" _Exactly_!" Ford's voice rose. Mentally, Bill counted the seconds until the nurses started checking in on them. "Because Stanley was supposed to take the journal and hide it and make sure it could never be found! He was never supposed to _have_ to fix the portal, that was why I hid the other two journals so well!" Well, wasn't that a stroke to your own ego, IQ? "But he couldn't even do _that_! Instead, he–"

Bill's eyes widened and, realizing what the next words out of this idiot of a genius would be, punched Stanford. Not hard enough to knock him out or even land him on his ass. He just needed to shut the guy up fast – and, admittedly, it was rather satisfying.

On the bed, Stanley was silent, absorbing the things Ford had said – and the things Bill hadn't let him say. It didn't take a lot to figure out, as if they weren't things the kid had berated himself for, for four years.

 _Still_. It didn't mean he should have to hear it.

Before IQ could properly recover, Bill dragged the man up by his shirt, looked him in the eye and growled, "You're upsetting him. _Get out_."

"I'm his brother!"

"And I'm his friend!"

" _Bullshit_!" Sixer roared, turning positively red in the face. "That's a lie and we both–"

" _What is going on here_?!"

Everyone turned to look at the angry nurse.

,

Ford and Bill glared at each other as they sat outside the hospital room. They weren't going to be allowed back in for a while.

It occurred to Bill that he didn't need to put up with any of this. It occurred to him, quite belatedly, that he now had absolute power over this universe and he could undo the very fragment of the insolent fool glaring at him from across the room. He could rule the world, he could finally start the party, he could _win_.

 _But Stanley_.

And that was the entire problem, wasn't it? Bill couldn't imagine being without Stanley anymore - which was ridiculous and stupid but it was what it was - and Stanley couldn't imagine a world without Ford and Ford had some sort of a hero complex that damned everyone who cared about him.

"Stop glaring at me," Bill snapped. "This is your fault."

For a moment, Sixer seemed at a complete and utter loss for words. His jaw dropped before he managed to gather himself together to indignantly splutter, " _My fault_? How is any of this _my_ fault?"

Bill looked at him scornfully. "Do you think I _wanted_ to end up like this? In a weak, mortal body with all the power in the universe? Sitting in a hospital for some human who'll die in a few decades anyway?" He swallowed, looking down at his bony hands, observed the long fingers, the brown-pink flesh that was so fragile, so … so temporary.

"Then _why_?"

Bill lifted his eyes, looked straight into Stanford's bewildered ones and simply said, "For Stanley."

"Well," Ford deadpanned, "If anything, I would have thought Stanley would have asked you to _participate_ in one of his exhibits–"

"You know," Bill said, oh-so-casually, "You wouldn't even have your brother right now if it wasn't for me."

A moment.

Then–

" _What_?"

Bill narrowed his eyes at Ford, a hard edge to his voice as he spoke. "Did you really think Stanley could have been fine the entire time he was trying to fix the portal?"

"I didn't think he would even _try_ –"

"Well, he _did_!" And so help him, but Bill's voice rose to drown out all of Ford's assumptions, all of his theories, all his warped notions about his brother that no amount of intellect could untangle. "He did, night and day until he couldn't." He paused, swallowing, as he remembered the burn scar and its long convalescence and how it almost killed Stanley to rest for so long before being able to really work on the portal again. "And as soon as he could, he threw himself into it again."

"Stanley…"

Bill faltered, not wanting to say too much, not wanting him to know just how deep this ran. He thought about that night four years ago and the difficulty of taking care of Stanley and not knowing how to take care of _anything_ but being too scared not to try. He remembered the frustration of not being tangible and the panic that came with it whenever he saw Stanley pick up a particularly sharp object with that strange light in his eyes. He remembered Ford's emotions and felt a small longing for the time when he could still think of them as such instead of simply considering them as a part of himself.

Finally, Ford couldn't help himself. "How?"

How? He thought for a while, taking his time as he relished in Ford's obvious discomfort. But was this even his story to tell? Something told him that Stanley wouldn't want that story being told at all, if he could help it but there was something angry and vindictive making itself known in Bill and he couldn't help but reply. "A slit throat."

A strangled sound escaped Ford. But then his eyes steeled and he glared at Bill with all the steel of someone who didn't know what to believe. "You're lying."

A bitter smile twisted Bill's lips. "Am I?"

And Ford was silent.

,

,

* * *

 **Author's Note** : SO! This was an especially challenging chapter to write up. Mainly, the issue was making sure this ship stayed _platonic._ However, I really do hope that I was able to explain Bill's current attitude towards Ford as well as give a better insight as to why he's become so attached to Stanley. If I didn't, well, I'll try to go into it more in the subsequent chapters.

Thank you for reading the latest chapter of 'Residue'! As always, feedback is welcome~


	6. Ford-Surprises and Unicorn Hair

_Residue_

* * *

,

,

Stanford remembered the first time he got into a real right. It was in his second semester at Backupsmore at a bar that he couldn't remember for the life of him why he'd gone there in the first place. But he was there, alcohol obscuring his reasoning, adrenaline rushing through his veins as he'd thrown his fist at the upperclassman. As disinclined as he'd always been towards violence, he could at least admit himself in that one moment that Pops' boxing lessons were actually useful for something. And during his time on the other side of the portal, those lessons became invaluable – he had gone there without equipment or supplies of any sort. All he had were the clothes on his back, a pen, and an old picture of two brothers. All he had, in terms of survival, was his brain and his fists. He didn't even have a pocketknife. And it was those lessons in the boxing ring, the knowledge of how to take a hit properly if you had to take one at all, that saved his life countless times, especially during those first few weeks.

Ford remembered feeling a bit dazed after that, as if reality hadn't quite sank in just yet. Stanford never got into fights because there had always been Stanley who watched out for him, Stanley who made the bullies go away. Stanley, who would walk him back home where Ford would hand his brother a package of frozen peas or some ice if they didn't have that, for any bruises that Stan might have gotten on his behalf. Stanley, who was out there somewhere now, doing who knew what. The last he'd seen, Stanley had been advertising vacuums in a television commercial. But even that had been months ago now. He had wondered, for just a moment, if Stanley was doing alright – before he shook himself and thought, quite firmly, that his twin could do just fine on his own. Stan had always been great at the things Ford could never understand; Stanley _knew_ people, could talk just right to get anyone to buy anything. Of course he was doing alright. Ford … he didn't need to worry about his brother.

He'd been so colossally _stupid_.

Stanford sat in the car, feeling for all the world like someone just ripped out his spine and replaced it with cotton.

 _A slit throat_.

But the information was coming from Bill so it couldn't really be true, could it? It had to be taken with a grain of salt because Bill was a liar, he was fucking liar who–

Ford deflated again. Bill wouldn't lie about something like this. Not about something that could be so easily disproven.

Enemies. In their first ten years apart, Stanley must have made at least a handful of those, especially if he was living on the streets all that time. Ford imagined gangs and drug circles and all sorts of petty thievery that Stanley could have gotten mixed up in. He'd only been seventeen when Dad had kicked him out – God, that was so _young_ , Ford had never really thought about how young Stanley was at the time, it had always seemed as if they'd already grown up enough to take on the world – and what could he have done? Without graduating from college or even high school, without a special skill in any particular trade except talking, what could Stanley have done to support himself after being kicked out? What kind of options would he have had, that he had been faced with?

Something deep inside Ford twisted at all the implications. At all the possibilities. What had Stanley been desperate enough to resort to back then? He thought of the prostitutes and druggies that he would sometimes spot in New Jersey when he was younger, when he was old enough to recognize what they were. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. He was already at his home – or what used to be his home anyway, it was unrecognizable as such now – but he couldn't find it in himself to walk inside just yet. The car heater was turned off and the late winter cold fast making itself known but it was alright.

Stanford had survived colder by now.

He'd survived … a lot more than he ever thought he could have over the past – how many was it? Four years? Yes, just a little over four years. And in that time, he'd made allies, lost allies, gained enemies … a _lot_ of enemies. Even without quite understanding the universal currency most dimensions used until after quite a few months, Stanford already knew at a glance, the significance of the bounty Bill had placed on his head.

It would be a lie if he said he hadn't found it just a tiny bit flattering for a few scant seconds.

As he looked at the window, sitting in a rapidly cooling vehicle, Ford imagined Stanley at age seventeen on the streets with only his car, a duffel bag containing what were probably just half his clothes, and whatever amount of money he'd managed to save since Carla broke up with him. He imagined a winter much like this one and wondered if his brother managed to stay warm. Did he find places to stay around this time of year? Stanley was resourceful and determined but … looking back on it now, that could mean quite a lot of things.

 _A slit throat._

 _Enemies_.

Ford looked out on the snowy forest that surrounded the Shack and tried to recall the most painful way to pick apart someone possessing a human nervous system.

,

The day before, Stanford had arrived at the hospital with a nearly skull-splitting hangover after his indulgence of the liquor supply the previous night. Today, however, he made a conscious effort to be sober despite the disquieting thoughts that had hounded him until the early hours of the morning. He didn't want a repeat of yesterday; as satisfying as it was to finally be able to throw Cipher around, he hadn't actually managed to land a hit and he didn't want to get thrown out of the room again.

He thought back to yesterday's panic when the nurse had informed him that his someone else claiming to be Stanley's brother had arrived no less than half an hour before.

"Brother?" he'd asked blankly because Shermie was the only other sibling either of them had but there was no way Shermie would know about something like this. Not so soon and certainly not without trying to call first.

"Oh, yes," the nurse had said with a charmed smile. "Bill, he called himself."

Ford ran then. And there, beside Stanley's hospital bed, Cipher had sat in a perfectly human form, perfectly normal-looking if not for the … the … there was _something_ wrong with his eyes. The irises weren't yellow, nor the pupils slit like a cat's but for all Bill's knowledge about a body, he had apparently overlooked something in the eyes because there was something wrong with them that made a chill run down Ford's spine as Cipher raised a finger to his lips in a silencing gesture. Or maybe it wasn't _just_ the eyes. Maybe it was the hair and facial structure that was an eerie mimic of their own, the way Bill could have easily passed for a taller, younger version of their father. Or maybe it was the simple fact that it was _Bill_ inside the body and the knowledge that he now had the power to take a corporeal form should he so wish, but something about the dream demon's entire countenance unnerved him.

Today, though, Stanford was more prepared. He drove out of the house earlier than yesterday. The doctors have had their overnight observation of Stanley, now Ford was going to take his brother home and ward the entire property with whatever would work against Bill. Whatever the dream demon's interest in Stanley, it wasn't good. No matter what sort of sentimental expression Cipher made in certain moments, Ford wasn't going to fall into the same trap twice.

 _Friends_. Hah.

Bill Cipher had minions, he had pawns, he had plans; he did not have _friends_.

He'd just have to make Stanley see that. Make Stanley understand. Surely, _surely_ , Stanley of all people would have sensed something wrong Bill. Ford would explain things to Stanley and everything would be just a little more normal than it had been ever since the portal. They'd make a plan and maybe, just maybe, everything could start being _okay_.

"Uh, Ford?"

Stanley's hesitant voice jolted Ford out of his thoughts. Blinking, he glanced over at the passenger side. "Yes, Stanley?"

"Yer mutterin's making me feel nervous…"

Ford frowned slightly. He hadn't realized he'd been talking aloud.

"Is something wrong?"

"There are a lot of things that are wrong." Ford narrowed his eyes even as he kept them on the road, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "Starting with what kind of bargain you and Cipher have made and what its terms are." Thank God, Cipher hadn't been in the hospital yet when Ford had arrived. He didn't know what the triangle was up to but he was thankful to finally have some time to talk with his brother without interruption.

"Deal…?" Stanley stared at him blankly for a moment before realization dawned on him. When it did, he drew a tired hand down his face. "Sixer, I already told ya, we didn't make a deal–"

" _Stop it_!" Ford's voice rose, almost frenziedly, and Stanley flinched in his seat. He felt guilty for so many things but he didn't stop, he couldn't stop, he had to make Stanley _understand_ -! "Bill doesn't just _give_ help! He asks for returns, he has a price, even if he doesn't always specify what it is at the beginning." Ford took in a deep breath. Chancing the road – which wasn't a good idea, considering a lot of it was iced over – he turned pleading eyes on Stanley. " _Please_ , Stanley, just be honest with me."

But his twin was silent. Something cold gripped Stanford's heart, icy fingers that made it stutter and jump.

"What did he offer you?" Ford demanded, practically whipping around in his seat. "What did he promise you that you would lie to me? TELL ME."

Stanley quailed, pressing himself against the car door, even as he met Ford's glare with wide, vulnerable eyes. "Damn it, Sixer, _I'm not lying_!"

But there was something, there had to be _something_. Something that Ford was somehow missing. He ran through every interaction he'd observed between Stanley and Bill since he'd come back, a tingling sense in the back of mind that he refused to acknowledge because it was so idiotic, he'd be the laughingstock of the entire multiverse long after his passing if he ever even thought of the possibility. Bill used people, that was a simple fact about his nature. Deals and relationships were means to the end he wanted, no other way about it.

All Ford had to do was figure out what Stanley's role in all of this was now.

 _The party's been canceled_.

Ridiculous. This was just another step in one of Bill's manipulations. Nothing more, nothing less. And Stanley, he would understand. Of course he would understand.

He had to.

,

A long time ago, when the nightmare had only just started, Ford searched for any feasible way to keep Bill out of his head. The trust he had so readily, _foolishly_ given had backfired on him and now, every waking moment was spent in terror with the knowledge that should he even drift off, his body would be taken from him. Too often, he would wake up with something already happening around him – waking up just in time to experience the agony of falling down the stairs with an already broken arm or the panic at realizing the incision on his side was made with a rusty blade, the list went on.

And the _nightmares_. Ford could barely tell anymore whether eerily blinking kitchen light was simply a malfunctioning bulb or the prelude to another round of one of Bill's games. It had been a consistent, maddening terror, and Ford turned to every story, every myth and legend that existed. But in each way he turned, Bill proved to simply dismiss the talismans, the spells, the charms that were put against him. He had been seemingly immune to everything under the sun.

"You can't stop me, IQ! How many times do I have to tell you that? Someday, whether you look it or not, that portal's gonna open and when it does, **everything changes**."

Installing the metal plate into his head was a painful relief, desperate act that it was. Although it didn't keep all the nightmares out, it did prevent Bill from taking Ford's body without his express permission and that allowed for some of the tension to lessen. His body, at least, was safe now.

So Bill made the nightmares _worse_.

" _You have no one left, Sixer_! No one in this dumb little rock you call a planet remembers or cares about you anymore. Just give it up! If you do, I might even give you some leeway after me and my friends have taken over."

Bill had already taken his knights, disabled his pawns, convinced Ford to willingly push away all of his bishops and castles. But he still had one piece left on the board. One last mad gamble.

 _Please come_.

,

Stanford Pines was now thirty-two years old, turning thirty-three soon. Not quite up there yet, no matter how many frown lines he got. Still, he could definitely say that he was getting too old to tromp around in the woods in the snow, wearing an unfamiliar but weathered coat he had found in the closet but wasn't entirely convinced was clean.

He _had_ to go shopping soon; he didn't think he could stand wearing Stanley's clothes for much longer. It was strange and embarrassing and he wasn't used to wearing these sorts of things anymore. It didn't help that most of Stanley's clothes seemed to consist of stiff, formal attire.

"Where're you going?" Stanley frowned as Ford readied himself for the weather outside less than a few minutes of arriving at the Shack. "The snow's coming in pretty heavy."

"I've traveled through worse conditions," Ford dismissed as he donned a thicker pair of gloves. "I'm gathering ingredients that should create a barrier around the Shack."

If anything, Stanley's frown deepened. "A barrier," he echoed, as if he couldn't imagine why anyone would need such a thing. "Against what, exactly?"

" _You_ may not think of Bill as a threat, but I can assure you: I have known him for far longer and I know what he is capable of." Reluctantly, he looked at Stanley, who was staring at him with a mix of emotions he couldn't identify at the moment. Allowing his voice to soften, he admitted, "There's no shame in it, Stan. He tricked me once, too."

Stanley opened his mouth, maybe to protest, but Ford … he was tired of this game they were playing. He cut his brother off, saying, "I should be back within a few hours. If someone knocks, don't open the door." Ford gripped Stanley's arms, leveling him with a serious look, trying to impress the importance of what he was about to say to a man whom he remembered never particularly respected any piece of advice. He could only hope that Stanley would listen now.

" _Trust no one_."

,

Celestabellabethabelle wore a ridiculous sort of pink horse's coat when he arrived. She posed in front of a frozen pond, snowflakes catching on her mane and fake eyelashes as another, presumably magical, forest creature took photographs of her.

Ford remembered all those years ago, when he first met this annoying, whinnying thing. Remembered the back-breaking day when he tried to 'redeem' himself until he gave it up for naught. Although, what exactly would he have done with a unicorn's approval? Drink tea with her and discuss the frequency of the rainbows lately?

…Well, alright, six years ago, the notion may have appealed to him but it all just seemed idiotic in retrospect. (Frankly, the only reason Ford could willingly believe that she was the last of kind was the fact that whatever got rid of all the other unicorns must not have wanted to come within a ten-foot radius of Celestabellabethabelle). That he had gotten so hung up over such a small comment on the state of his morality was short-sighted and childish. Of course he wasn't pure of heart, _no one_ was pure of heart, and if that was the standard the last unicorn insisted on holding to, then something was obviously up. And he needed her hair.

As Ford approached, he felt the sharp pair of scissors he'd stuffed into his coat pocket just before leaving the Shack for his ingredient gathering. Grimly, he smiled at the prissy horse that insisted he take off his shoes. So what if Celestabellabethabelle refused to give him her hair? He needed it to protect him and Stanley. To give them the peace of mind that Bill Cipher couldn't simply enter the shack while they slept.

This was for him and Stanley.

He held the shears tightly in one hand as he walked towards the unicorn. This was Celestabellabethabelle's fault. If only she didn't hoard her mane – she had more than was reasonable on a horse, er, unicorn. She probably shed enough in one day to make a wig. But no, she had to be stingy and now look at what he was about to do?

Ford readied himself for the brawl. He needed to be careful, it would be so easy to get trampled on by an enraged beast of burden and as annoying as the unicorn was, he didn't doubt the strength in Celestabellabethabelle's legs.

He also needed to start calling her something else in his head.

A savage smile took over Ford as he hit the unicorn hard enough to knock her – if it was really a 'her', the voice made things a little questionable – out in one go. Then, he stood over her for a moment, relishing the sweet air and the feeling in his chest as he did so, before lowering himself on one knee and getting to work.

Hitting a sparkly unicorn never felt so _right_.

,

,

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Thank you for reading 'Residue'! And also, the feedback I've been getting has been so sweet. Writing the chapters gets tricky but I'm glad that there are people who enjoy what I manage to write up.


	7. Stan-The Only Sane Man

_Residue_

* * *

,

,

"Uh, Ford…"

"Hmm?"

"You okay?"

Stanley stared at his twin brother with a raised eyebrow. Ford had just returned from … whatever he had gone out into the snow to do and come back covered in what looked like a rainbow's glittery vomit. And were those _eyelashes_ on his cuff? Never mind, he didn't want to know. Although, he was interested to find out where his brother had managed to find a chest full of gold.

Heh. Probably from the leprechaun he must've mugged… Would explain the weird, colorful liquid staining his clothes, too.

A manic glint flashed in Ford's eyes. "I am more than okay, Stanley! I have the unicorn hair!" He waved a fistful of similarly rainbow-themed hair high, like some sort of prize; the sight of it was too beautiful for words. Nothing Stan could think of could keep the edges of his lips from twitching. Oh, what he would give to have camera right now. "Do you know what this means?"

 _Unicorn_? "Um … that you scalped a horned horse?"

"I did not _scalp_ her," Ford scoffed. "I merely took a significant portion of her mane."

"…And I don't suppose that you had her permission to do this?"

"Oh, no," Ford said earnestly, "I had to fight her for it. Although unicorn hair is vital towards the creation of the barrier, she refused to part with a strand unless I could prove myself 'pure of heart'." He let out a sharp, harsh laugh. "As if she thought I was still a fool."

" 'Still'?" Stanley wondered aloud. There was definitely some sort of a story there.

But Ford shook his head. "A tale for another time." He made a beeline for the vending machine. Futilely, Stan tried to press down the wave of concern and slight frustration that rose up at seeing him do so. After all this time, after all that effort, his brother was just writing him off for another experiment.

"You know, a barrier really isn't needed," he tried. It was a useless effort, he knew that well enough, but he still tried. And he hated – he _hated_ – the look Ford gave him now, that patronizing look so full of pity that him bristle because he wasn't a child. If Ford just bothered making a clear explanation for once in his life, he was sure he could understand whatever was currently wrong. He paused. Took in a deep breath. Then, taking the leap, he asked, "What exactly happened between you and Bill?"

His brother froze, eyes bugging out ever so slightly. Finally, he turned back to Stanley and said, in a quiet, deadly voice, "He used me."

,

The house was a mess.

…Alright, it was always a mess but that didn't mean Stanley wouldn't notice the obvious signs that Ford had rifled through the place. Looking for some of his old stuff, maybe? Stan had had to sell quite a few of the relics in the house, particularly when Murder Hut hadn't been doing too well back then – prompting the eventual change to the name Mystery Shack. Much more family-friendly, or so he'd been told anyway. He rather hoped Ford wasn't angry about _that_ , too. Probably was, though.

Geez, when did he get so jumpy about these sorts of things? At least he'd had Bill around to tell him the actual value of all the stuff so he didn't get bad deal – and there were times when Bill had advised against selling particular objects at all.

"You won't see something like that again if you sell it now," Bill had warned on occasion. "Better put it in storage. Why don't you show them the monkey-mermaid-thing you put together yesterday instead?"

So, what was there to worry about? Stan had managed to keep all the important stuff. And, well, now that Ford was back, there were some things that should probably be taken out again. Surprisingly, despite all his rummaging around, Ford didn't seem to have found the box that Stanley had put all his clothes into. Well, it may have been surprising if said box wasn't also buried under a pile of slightly used clothing in the closet but somehow, a small part of Stanley expected him to have unearthed it anyway. Still, this obviously wasn't the case as he took the cardboard box from where he'd placed it several years before, and set it in his brother's bedroom.

Quietly, Stan fell into a rhythm of picking up the scattered items and general tidying up. It was … well, it was something normal he could do – the only normal thing he could think of doing at this point. Tourist season was still a month or two away from starting up, and to be honest, he had no idea what to do with Ford and himself until then.

(There were a lot of questions floating in the back of his mind, whispering worries that, if not unfounded, would need a heck of a lot of planning to prepare for. Would Ford let him stay at the Shack? Would he let the Mystery Shack keep going, or would he shut it down completely? If he did, what was Stan supposed to do with all the leftover merchandise? Exactly how badly did his brother want to kick Bill out of their lives?)

 _Trust no one_.

The two words sent a chill down Stanley's spine, as if the sentence itself could be haunted. _Trust no one_. In a town like Gravity Falls, it actually would have seemed like pretty sage advice. But if that was how Ford thought, if that was how he ended up half-mad when he answered the door to Stanley all those years ago, then maybe it wasn't so great after all.

And yet, terrifyingly, the opposite could also have occurred – his brother may have trusted too much and been burned for it.

 _He used me_.

A part of Stanley squirmed uncomfortably at the thought of that. His every memory of Bill just didn't line up with Ford's attitude of him. It was like they'd gotten acquainted with two vastly different people of the same name. And it wasn't as if he didn't get it; out on the streets, you learned pretty fast that the only person you could really trust was yourself. Stan was more familiar with the paranoia of being alone in the world than Ford could appreciate – but then, it wasn't as if Stanley had told him about it or was planning on speaking a word on the matter any time soon, if possibly ever.

Stanley sighed slightly as he peered into a nearly empty fridge. It looked like they were having canned food tonight. Had Sixer eaten anything at all while Stanley was at the hospital? He glanced at the sink. Yes, apparently, his brother _had_ been eating something in the past few days, if the metal basin's contents were anything to go by.

Someone knocked on the front door.

Stan started out of his thoughts; outside of tourist season, the Shack rarely ever saw visitors. Who would be coming to call _now_ of all times? It was … well, it was suspicious timing, to say the least. Instead of answering it straightaway, Stanley found himself drawing to the little window near the door and trying to take a peek of the visitor without making himself known, Ford's warnings echoing in his head.

-Only to have a familiar yet unfamiliar face practically shoved at the glass, a slightly manic glint in his eye that Stanley would have been much happier, at this point, to be less acquainted with.

"Stanley? Stanley! It's me," the not-stranger exclaimed.

And then it clicked.

" _Bill_?"

Bill Cipher snorted. "Who else, knucklehead? Let me in, won't you? It's freezing out here."

Even after seeing and confirming it in the hospital, this was beyond weird. Was this brown-haired man really the yellow triangle that he'd befriended in the last few years? It seemed … off. A part of Stanley missed the expected inhuman, slightly annoying quality that usually lay in Bill's voice. However, it was now replaced with a deep baritone.

Still … there were his eyes. His weird-ass brown eyes that somehow instantly said 'no', that said 'look again', that were brown but somehow not. Like there was something beyond them and that if you looked hard enough you could find it swirling inside his pupils. Stanley squinted slightly, trying to puzzle it out, his eyes almost caught in Bill's, like a startled animal's and _he could not look away_ –

" _Stanley_!"

He blinked. "Uh?" he asked stupidly.

"Let me in!"

Stanley gathered himself together, trying to steady his now-shaking hands as he looked back at Bill, though not into his eyes. "I don't think that's such a great idea." Every word felt like a betrayal but, well… "Ford might just take your head off if you come in." And indeed, Stan had a niggling suspicion that if he were to allow Bill into the house, he would very well turn around to see his brother behind him holding an axe with that crazy glint in his eyes. And while his imagination was obviously exaggerating the entire thing – there wasn't even an axe in the house – Stanley didn't want to risk Bill's safety or Ford having some sort of heart attack.

But Bill rolled his eyes. "Come on, Stan, you and I both know that I can take your brother on any day."

"Going into a house with someone who violently hates you ain't a good idea no matter how strong you think you are."

Bill raised an eyebrow. "Speaking from experience, are we?"

Stanley shrugged. "Sixer's making an anti-you barrier in the basement right now. Dunno how it works exactly but I'm pretty sure you don't wanna be here when it goes up."

"Barrier?" Bill frowned slightly. "I – oh. Oh, I see. Well, if you can't let me then why don't you come out?"

It seemed reasonable. Stanley opened the door and stepped out to the porch.

"Did you have to make yourself so damned tall?" weren't the ideal words to start a conversation with but they flew out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Because, really, Stan and Ford – and Shermie, too – had gotten their heights from their dad but Bill still made himself a few inches taller. After years of seeing him as a floating triangle that could easily be stuffed into the microwave, Stanley suddenly found himself craning his neck back a bit to really see Bill's face and it was _weird_. It was the kind of change that unsettled a guy but maybe that was exactly what he was going for.

"I thought it was a good idea. If I'm going to make myself into a meatsack, I may as well make it a good one." A wry smile curled his lips.

"One that looks like us."

"Yep."

"A _lot_ like us."

"Yep!"

"Like, you could pass for my brother."

"I know."

Stanley narrowed his eyes. " _Bill_."

Bill laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Oh, come on, you've gotta admit it's funny! You shoulda seen the look on Sixer's face when he first saw me."

"I can just imagine." Stanley sighed, shaking his head as he drew a hand down his face. "You're really not making the whole thing any better."

A bemused smile quirked Bill's lips. "I didn't realize I was supposed to."

"Well," he admitted, "Maybe you're not. But you're not meant to make it worse, either."

Bill pointed a finger at himself with an innocently surprised 'who, _me_?' expression.

"You're deliberately antagonizing him."

"Oh, please, we both know he'd try to shoot me even if I just sat on a chair and read a newspaper."

He had a point there. "I still don't see what's got him so set against you." Stanley hesitated but … well, now was as good a time as any. And besides, it wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to leave unsaid and spend the night worrying over. He folded his arms and leveled Bill with a _look_. "He said you used him."

"Ah."

And there was silence.

"That's it?" Stanley asked incredulously. "My brother says you used him and all of have to say for it is 'ah'?"

Bill shrugged and Stanley was sorely tempted to tell him he looked like an exceptionally tall turtle whenever he did so. "What do you want me to say? Sixer and I have a different way of looking at the things that happened. But remember this," he said, his expression turning deadly serious and Stan found himself standing just a little bit straighter. "When he got stuck with his research, _Ford_ summoned _me_. And I helped him discover the furthest reaches of his work and secrets that he could never have realized on his own. It isn't my fault – or really my concern – if he disliked what he found." His eyes, his weird creepy eyes, narrowed and Stanley swallowed, feeling way too far out of his depth. He did not sign up for any of this mystery shit, he'd just wanted to reconnect with his brother. Was that really too much to ask for?

But then, Bill seemed notice his discomfort and drew back slightly, the darkness in his expression fading somewhat. "Ford blames other people for a lot of things," he said sympathetically. "It's not a good habit of his."

It was, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. Ford was still his brother. "He also told me you had a price," Stanley recalled. "That you always have a price."

He nodded. "And I've told you there isn't one for you."

"Yeah, I know, I remember – thank for that again, by the way. I don't think I have anything to pay you back with, still."

"I know."

"But my point is – what was the price you gave Ford?"

"Ford's price?" Bill's eyes glazed over somewhat as he lost himself in thought. Again, Stanley dared look straight into those brown irises, more prepared now than he was the first time around. They were brown eyes but something about them felt like they dragged him in. Like two little black holes that sucked his entire attention span and – was something _writhing_ at the edges of his pupils?

Stan started at the sound of Bill's amused tone. "Sorry, what?"

"I said, you can't stop looking at my eyes, can ya, kid?" Bill teased affectionately. "Don't worry, I know I made 'em wrong. Can't seem to help it, though. It's one of those things that won't change about me – eyes being the windows to the soul and all that, after all."

"That's just a saying."

"Is it, though?"

Stanley shook his head. "You say the strangest things."

Bill smiled unnaturally wide. " _Thank_ you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"I know."

"You're weird."

"At least you'll never be bored," Bill sang.

" _Please_ don't do that. It's creepy."

Bill threw his head back and laughed. "I make no promises!"

They couldn't stay on the porch for much longer – it _was_ cold but as Stan didn't feel safe letting Bill in the house, he found himself leaving his friend in such a long time out in the cold.

"Don't worry about it," Bill said, waving off his apology. "While Ford was filling your head with paranoia, I was finding myself a place to stay in town for as long as I'm here."

"Oh – wait, you have money?"

"Stop gaping at me like that," he snapped, although the smile took the edge away from his voice. "But yeah, I have a bank account set up. I was prepared for – well, a lot of things, really."

"Like what?"

"Things like this," Bill said pointedly and Stan flushed slightly, feeling embarrassed even though he didn't know for what reason exactly. "Oh, hey, come on, it's not really your fault. This _is_ Ford's house, after all, and he's entitled to set up a protective barrier if he really feels that he should."

"It's too much," Stan said shortly, almost to himself. "If he doesn't stop all his worrying soon, he's going to drive himself crazy."

"That, he is." The thought of it seemed to amuse him.

Bristling slightly, Stanley asked, "You really don't care about him, do you?"

"I don't care much for people who talk badly of me."

That … that was fair. "I still don't get why you helped me so much for nothing despite … well, you and Ford."

"Stanley." Something soft and sad but still quite firm entered Bill's face. He gripped Stan's shoulders just tightly enough to be reassuring as he said, "What I think of Ford is not what you are worth."

"…I still don't get it."

"I know you don't," Bill replied, not unkindly. "But it's not something that I can explain properly. Simply know that things are the way they are."

Stan scowled. "You and Ford are exactly the same. Neither of you will tell me what the heck is going on!"

A small bark of laughter escaped Bill. "Well, I'm not so sure about Ford but believe me, kid, when I say that there are things about me I will never be able to properly explain."

There was probably some truth to that. Still, it was irritating. Avoiding his eyes, Stanley mumbled, "I can understand more than you think."

"Are you so sure?" A mischievous glint made itself known in Bill's eyes. A small shiver of unease ran down Stan's spine as the hands on his shoulders slide down to his forearms and – was Bill standing so near a second before? It was like he'd … shifted forward without moving his legs.

"Er… Bill?"

"Hmm?"

Stanley gulped. "…Did you really try to eat Ford, or is the concussion just messing with me?"

Bill burst out laughing. Stanley's smile, however, froze slightly on his face when he was dragged into the taller man's arms in one of the oddest hugs he'd ever been in. Odd, in that there was something vaguely nostalgic about it despite the fact that he hadn't been embraced in who knew how many years. Not that Bill hadn't ever _tried_ to hug him before, as a projection or within the mindscape but it was different now that Bill … well, now that Bill wasn't a geometric figure. Now that he had actual arms and a pulse, there was something slightly awkward about being hugged in his thirties by a full-grown man.

He remembered the last time someone had manhandled him. He could still taste the mix of polyester, leather and blood in his mouth. Another shiver ran down his spine.

"Uh…Bill?"

"I ain't letting go yet, kid."

"Why not?"

"Just wait four more seconds."

"Um…" He was starting to get a very bad feeling about this.

The door flew open and although Stanley stumbled back in surprise, Bill clung to him like a barnacle as an enraged voice rang in the air.

" _WHAT THE HELL DO YOU TWO THINK YOU'RE DOING_?!"

Stanley turned betrayed eyes to Bill's utterly smug mug. Did he _plan_ this?

"Well!" Bill exclaimed, his eyes and countenance far too bright and cheery even as he pulled Stan ever closer. " _This_ is awkward."

Reaching forward, Stanford grabbed Stanley's arm and yanked him away from Bill. One glance at his brother was all Stan needed to know how livid he was. The vein in his temple looked like it was ready to burst.

"Is _this_ what you traded?" The grip on Stan's wrist grew painful such that he began trying to pry Ford's fingers off. "Is this the price he gave you? That you would be his… his…"

"Oh my God, Ford, _no_!" Stanley roared, finally managing to free his wrist. He stepped away from his brother _and_ Bill. "No, Bill was just – being weird."

"Aw, come on, Stan, don't be shy," Bill said teasingly despite the wild 'don't you dare' eyes he received. "You make it sound like we don't hug at all."

" _Bill_ , what did I _just_ say about _not helping things_ ," Stanley hissed, for all the good that it did with Ford less than three feet away.

"I believe you agreed that I am under no obligation to ease the tension."

" _That was not what I said_!"

" _Enough_!" Ford shouted. "Cipher, get off my property or so help me, I will–"

"What?" Bill sneered. " _What_ , exactly are you going to do, IQ? Hit me? Set up your silly little barrier? Unless you're planning on trapping Stanley and yourself inside it for the rest of your days, it's not going to be much help once you leave step foot outside."

"It may not be a foolproof plan but it would at least be a start in getting you out of our lives."

"I would be _very_ happy to leave your life. There is nothing from or about you that would make me want to stay." Bill paused then, just long enough for a confused expression to overtake Stanley and Stanford. That was when he chose to add, "I just want Stanley."

" _What_?!" Ford squawked.

Stanley squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as a fresh wave of bickering began.

,

,

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Bill really likes messing with Ford, Ford is way too easy to rile up and Stan is caught in the middle. This chapter is my attempt at introducing a little humor to the fic. Honestly, though, I've never been good at dialogue and interaction in general. Feedback/constructive criticism is well appreciated.

Thank you so much for reading 'Residue'!


	8. Ford-Truth and Nightmares

_Residue_

* * *

 **Author's Note** : So, I really took my time with this update. One of those reasons is busyness, another reason is depression, and another is that this fic is really just one of the longest and most complicated things I've yet written. Still, I've done my best to make the chapter as best as I can make it. I apologize for the wait and if there are grammatical errors that slipped through the editing process, please feel free to point it out so I can fix it as soon as I can.

* * *

,

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"Just _die,_ you. Stupid. _Thing_!" Ford roared, pinning the figure struggling beneath him. His hands gripped its neck, choking it, making it thrash desperately against him but he didn't let go, wouldn't let go, this was all its fault, its fault, _its damn fault_ -!

It wheezed. " _Please_ …"

"SHUT UP!"

At last, at long last, it stilled. The pulse beneath his hands disappeared. And Ford sat back, breathing hard, felt the steadying rhythm of his own heart. He closed his eyes, let himself relax for just one moment. When he opened them, he looked down, at the face he hated so much.

It was Stanley's.

It was Ford's.

Remarkable, really, how perfectly the photocopy machine could replicate something.

The room was dark. His heart pounded in his ears from his throat, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the otherwise silent room. A chill pervaded the air, through his coat as he sat on the chest of a new corpse. Echoes bounced off the wall, whispering _your fault your fault your faultyourfault._

Ford was alone.

His hands, his brand from birth, rose to cover his face as he fought to gather the pieces once again. Eventually, he sighed let out a heavy breath and stood to leave the room for the nearest faucet. One glass of water was all it ever took to dispose of the evidence. He poured it on the corpse.

Except it didn't melt as it was supposed to. But why? _Why didn't it fucking melt_?!

His hand - trembling so badly he couldn't stop couldn't _stop -_ slipped and spilled some water on his shoe. Every bit the liquid touched melted into a puddle.

Ford screamed.

–And then he woke up.

,

Gravity Falls wasn't the only place he could have gone.

In all honesty, there had been one other option, another place that had been available at the time. Or maybe there were many and had simply gone unreported. In any case, at the time of Ford's choosing, he had been faced with two choices.

Gravity Falls or the Arctic Ocean.

At the time, there were a lot of reasons he didn't explore the weirdness that lay in the deep waters. There was the boat to think about, for one, the fact that he would be at sea for months at a time. Things had a higher chance of going irreparably wrong there, so he thought; scientific research was riskier on a boat, and so dependent on the weather. And what if his navigational equipment malfunctioned due to some technical glitch or anomaly? He could get lost for dangerous lengths of time. Alone, it seemed that the risks were too dangerous and too many.

That's what he told himself.

The truth was this:

Boats, the ocean, and everything to do with them were the dreams of two young brothers. Two young, foolish brothers who just wanted to get away from their hometown. And when life started pulling them apart, one held too tight while the other just wanted to let go.

It was the dream of two boys and it belonged to them now, even after so many years. But it was nothing more and nothing less.

So Ford flexed his six-fingered hands and chose.

Year later, as he found himself arguing with Bill Cipher on the front porch about the latter's very recent and very public display of affection with the former's twin brother, Ford mentally cursed his reasoning skills in choosing Important Life Decisions while he verbally swore at a dream demon.

Stanley, for his part, seemed to have simply stepped off to the side to massage his temples at the ongoing shouting match. It was an odd thing – Stan was rarely ever neutral about any subject matter. A part of Ford might not even have been so surprised if his brother had sprung in to _defend_ Cipher, with the way things have been going in the past few days.

And it was ironic, wasn't it? That Stanford should step in Fiddleford's shoes as the sane voice in the group. As the one warning the other about the dangers of calling such a powerful unknown a friend.

Really, it was the portal mess all over again.

…Except it also wasn't.

And that was the frightening part.

Bill Cipher wasn't acting according to what Ford knew of his nature. Cipher took, he manipulated, and at the end, he discarded his pawns. He didn't do … _this_.

This petty antagonizing. And yes, it was agony for Ford who hadn't slept more than maybe three hours the night before, but was this _really_ necessary? Was this _really_ what Cipher wanted to do with his power over the universe? Hang around Ford's house?

It seemed like a waste of what was at _least_ a million years' time and effort. More than a waste, actually, but what did Ford know about the mind of an immortal?

Still, the horrible knowledge of Bill holding complete control over their universe was somewhat eased by the fact that he was choosing to spend it having a verbal spar with Ford over the human concept of decency.

Even if it was horribly irritating.

"The Hebrews used to kiss each other on the cheek to greet each other."

"We are _Americans_."

Cipher uttered a cry as he lay a flat palm over his chest. "How your ancestors would turn in their graves to hear you say that."

Personally, Ford rather thought that he had a lot more to worry about than if his ancestor's bones felt restless. Some cinnamon with formaldehyde would fix them up but no amount of it would rectify _this_.

" _Get off my porch, Cipher_."

He doubted that would work, either, but he was willing to try anything at this point. 'All I want is Stanley' indeed. The only way Cipher was ever getting complete hold over his brother was by prying Stan from Ford's cold, dead fingers.

But then, finally, Stanley sighed, looking up at them. "Just … do it, Bill."

For one second, Bill opened his mouth, looking as indignant as he probably – unjustifiably – felt but one sharp glare from Stan was all it took for the dream demon's jaw to snap back closed again. "Fine."

Oh, if only Ford had had that sort of ability. Even in their days working together, there were times when Cipher just would not shut up.

And he left. Bill Cipher, a non-humanoid being older than time just … _left_. One word, one look from Stanley and…

"Stanley." Ford jerked his head towards the door. "We need to talk."

 _What the hell was going on?_

,

Take a step back.

Breathe.

What were the facts?

One. Bill Cipher was a monster looking to conquer the world, as horribly cliché and cartoonish as that sounded.

Two. Ford hasn't seen his brother for more than a few minutes at a time for over a decade. Stanley was a lazy fast-talker but he wasn't an idiot. Not about these sorts of things. That was … sort of Stanford's thing.

Alright. Those were the facts.

But what was the situation now?

Bill was in this dimension with all the power he needed to tear it apart. But for some obscure reason, he _wasn't_ – what he was doing was turning himself acting the equivalent of a teenage boy throwing rocks at a girl's window… as horrifying as the parallel was.

And Stanley wasn't being much better.

"Yer gonna wear holes into the new carpet if you don't stop that."

Ford spun on his heel, regarding Stan who leaned on the doorway to the living room from the kitchen with his arms folded. Stanley, who had come upon being called after ten years of silence. Stanley, who Ford had once thought would always be a part of his life.

Stanley.

"What did he do for you?"

Stan shifted. Ford would say the question had made him uncomfortable but he didn't think he knew enough about his brother to be able to assume that anymore.

"You were never like this when we were young," Ford said, narrowing his eyes as he regarded the man standing in front of him. "You would never be so … loyal to just anyone, on a whim." His hand rose up to point at him, almost accusingly. "No – Bill did something for you. What was it?"

And Stanley, his brother Stanley, looked away as he ran a hand through his scruffy hair. "Ford…"

"He mentioned that you weren't always fine while you were working on the machine. That you almost had your throat slit. Was that it? Did he help you then?" It was important, it _had_ to be important or Cipher wouldn't have made a point of repeating the incident to Ford. But what was it significant _of_?

"Bro, you really don't want to know."

"No. But I think I need to."

When the silence stretched, Ford racked his brain again. He wasn't good at this and he never thought he'd ever need to actually use so much of the communication skills he hadn't been born with and never really managed to pick up on over the years. Exhaustion rose up with Ford's hands and he ran them over his face. Too little sleep, too little food, too little information and his one source to remedy one of those problems was clamming up.

Alright, then.

"Stanley, _please_." How to go about this, how to go about this… "In the car, earlier, you complained that I never tell you anything so you can't understand. But there are things here that I don't understand, either, and I … don't know what to do." Settling himself into the armchair, Ford gave his twin a level gaze. "Look. In my experience, Bill was a monster. But," he continued quickly when Stan opened his mouth, "He's been anything but since I arrived here. An annoyance, yes, but he hasn't taken over the world like he gloated. And now, I don't understand why – but if I hear your side of things, I might."

"I don't think it will; he's always been like this – to me, anyway."

Feeling almost as if he'd been jabbed, Ford said, with more gentleness than he felt, "I still need to know."

Stan let out a heavy breath before disappearing into the kitchen. There was the sound of the fridge opening and slamming shut. A second later, Stan appeared through the doorway again, this time with a beer clutched in one hand as he made his way to the couch. He fell on it heavily, took a swig.

"Okay, so let me get this straight – you think that knowing about that incident will help you understand Bill?"

"Yes."

"Alrighty then, but, bro, even I don't know what goes on in that brick head of his."

"I doubt anyone can."

"But you're still going to try."

"I have to."

Stanley's eyebrows rose. "Or?"

"Or I'll never be able to rest in peace."

This time, the silence was thoughtful. And tiresome though it was – the exhaustion was very, very real by now and neither his earlier romp through the woods nor his encounter with Celestabellabethabelle helped – Ford waited.

Finally, Stan leaned forward. "Fine. _But_ ," he added, "You need to tell me what happened between the two of you. _Everything_."

 _Everything_. Ford's mistakes, his naivety, his stubbornness, all out on display for his twin to see.

 _But he needed to know_.

Swallowing his pride, Ford nodded. His insides squirmed at the agreement but it was the condition and … well, Stanley didn't exactly look happy to be talking either.

Ford was tired.

It was time for this to end.

For several long moments, Stan simply stared off into the empty air as he nursed his beer. Then, finally, he spoke. He started with things that Ford expected – dreams, the eccentricity, the stupid hat and cane. But then came the knife incident.

And the explanation was … different from what he'd expected.

"It wasn't easy, y'know, being in the house, with the burn, fixing up that damned portal. And it kind of just … happened."

It was like being far away while Stanley continued the story. Like Ford was dreaming or having one of Bill's nightmares and that had to be it, right? Because Stanley wouldn't … he _couldn't_ … he didn't give up. He did things, he excelled with people, he was the one with 'personality'.

But he hadn't exactly graduated, had he? Without even getting his high school diploma what exactly had any of them expected Stan to make of himself? Had they expected anything at all?

"–But he stopped me. Looked pretty freaked out about it, too. He hardly left me alone for a long time afterwards."

Of course not. If Stan died, he couldn't have repaired the portal.

"He started visiting me even when I was awake, helped me start up the Mystery Shack… He even got me to reconnect with Shermie."

And everything could have been written off as manipulation except for the last part. During Ford and Bill's time working together, Cipher had discouraged distractions, egging him on to finish the portal as soon as possible. They would relax occasionally but Bill would have never recommended a weekend with family.

"It's mostly just been the two of us these four years. He's kind of like a nagging roommate. Reminds me to eat, sleep, get the groceries. Keeps me from collapsing."

So, Bill had transformed into their mother – well, Stanley's mother. As far as Ford had seen and heard, Bill had developed some sort of … _affection_ for Stan. Which was confusing and impossible and, honestly, nauseating. But it was where the signs were pointing. And unless it was some ridiculously convoluted new scheme that involved killing Ford with annoyance, then his new conclusion was correct.

He just didn't know _why_. And the answer to that could only come from Bill himself.

And then, it was his turn. And it was painful, almost agonizing, to admit the years, energy and time he'd wasted under Cipher's thumb. The portal was both his greatest success and failure.

Ford cleared his throat, his heart thumping painfully inside his chest. "After graduating ahead of my class, I began my research into anomalies. It led me to Gravity Falls. For a while, everything was fine…"

What on earth had happened to Fiddleford after … well, after? After he'd quit the project, Ford hadn't bothered really looking for his college friend. Was he back in California with his wife and son? Ford sincerely hoped he hadn't screwed up his only friend's life. But maybe that kind of thing just ran in the family. It certainly felt that way sometimes.

When Ford finished his story, there was silence.

Then–

"Damn," Stanley breathed. "He did all that just to get in here?"

"Yes."

"And now, he ain't doing anything about it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Ford threw his hands up. "I don't know, I thought maybe hearing your side of the story would give me some sort of clue." He dropped his face into his hands, keenly feeling the beginnings of a headache. "But now things are even more confusing."

"He used you."

"I've mentioned that before, yes." He sighed, looking up again at his brother, who was downing the last of his beer. "And _that_ makes sense, with what I've managed to gather about him from the other dimensions. What matters now is the interest he's now seemingly developed in–"

"He tortured you. He gave you nightmares, made you hallucinate, made your life a living hell. _He's the reason why you pointed a crossbow at me_."

"Well … yes."

There was an odd expression on Stanley's face. The kind of expression that he used to pull, back in high school when one of the bullies messed with Ford.

Except now, the bully was a notorious dream demon.

"Stanley, don't do anything stupid." Even if it was somewhat reassuring that, even after all these years, after the different dimensions he'd traveled through, there were some things that remained the same. "And in any case, that isn't the problem."

"Oh, you can be sure it's a problem."

"Even if it was, you can't do anything to him. No one can, now."

Satisfied that his brother wasn't going to immediately run off to find Bill, Ford leaned back in the armchair. It was a good one that he'd found at a second-hand sale a while back. He was rather pleased to see it still in the house.

"What does Bill Cipher want from us?"

Ford turned to his brother. "Well, you heard it from the man himself: he just wants you."

"Like hell he does."

How Stanley's attitude had changed... "Oh, I do think he's serious – to a certain extent, at least."

Stanley glared at him. " _Ford_."

He folded his arms, although an insane sort of amusement danced at the edges of his lips. "Everything I've seen and that you've told me points to genuine care. At least," he added thoughtfully, "As genuinely caring as someone like Bill can be."

"Well, if the bastard thinks the feeling's mutual, he's got another thing coming. What do we do?"

"Nothing."

" _Ford_!"

Once more, Ford leveled a steady gaze at his twin. "What do you want to do? Bill has the entire world in the cup of his hand. If he wanted to deconstruct me to my constituent atoms, he could. If he wanted to light the entire world on fire, he can. If he wants the trees to spit their sap at people, he may very well do just that. All we can do now is wait for his next move."

Ford stood, heading into the kitchen. If he was going to complete the shack's barrier today, he'd need a lot more caffeine than he had in his veins at the moment. Several minutes later, he found himself completely at a loss as to how Stanley had reconfigured the layout of his home.

"Stan, where did you hide all the mugs? I've looked in the cupboards and I can't – Stanley?"

He stepped into the living room and found it empty. Panic rising, he started shouting his brother's name. When no one replied, he ran up the stairs before going down into the basement.

But Stanley was gone.

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* * *

 **Author's Note** : Bad move, Ford. Bad move... Still, it wasn't as if Bill could ever have looked good once his other side came to light.

Thank you for reading the latest chapter of 'Residue'. And a big thank you to the people who gave feedback - I may not have had the respond to everyone but I've kept what's been reviewed in mind while I wrote.

Until next time!


	9. Shermie-Lost then Gone

_Residue_

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It happens like this.

You come home and the lights in the house are dim, but that's okay because it's late. However, what you do not expect is the soft sobbing inside that, disturbingly, sounds too much like your mother except you can't remember having ever heard her cry quite so much. Your younger brother opens the door to and gives you a muted greeting with dead eyes that makes something in your gut twist.

"Hey, Ford," you say as you fight to keep your voice from trembling. You step into the house – your house, you remind yourself, your childhood home – and know deep in your bones that something is wrong. When _he_ doesn't come out a few seconds later as expected, dread pools inside you, writhing and eating you from within, you ask, "Where's Stanley?"

There is no reply. No eye contact. And the first thing you find stumbling out of your mouth is panic, fear, gripping your heart, making it hard to breathe, think, just _breathe_.

"What happened?"

Eventually, your father appears and gives you the explanation. And you are enraged, betrayed, confused, _nothing makes sense_ but what does is that Stanley is not here and the reason why is stupid and how could Dad do something like this? How could you have missed something so monumental? And why didn't Mom or Ford do anything to stop it?

Ignoring your father shouting at your back, you rush out of the house – not your home, you think, not anymore – and you search for the youngest brother who has been out on the streets for what must be a little over a week now. You resolve not to return until you find him.

But he's gone.

You come back anyway but everything is different, stilted, _wrong_. Nothing is the same and a strain settles over your family that you can't find it in yourself to dispel. You're angry and guilty but so is everyone else – at least, that's how you hope they feel, you don't think you really know these people anymore and it hurtshurts _hurts_ – the only difference being that _they didn't do anything about it_. A chill seeps between the four of you, the void that Stanley left behind pulling you apart.

Nothing can be the same.

,

…But they do get better.

Time passes. By sheer miracle, you find someone who actually makes you think of settling down – and after so much time, that's exactly what you do. The wedding is small but happy despite the many shenanigans and unfortunate coincidences that occur behind the scenes. Life after that is so much brighter, more complicated, _meaningful_ in a way that had seemed lost. It's still different but it's good and warm and whole and you swear to yourself, your wife and the sleeping bundle in your arms that you will do anything and everything it takes to keep things this way.

,

For a while, everything is good.

And then, time stops.

One day, the phone rings. Your wife answers it while juggling your fussing toddler before handing it the receiver to you, a concerned look on her face.

One day, a mildly sympathetic woman asks if you are Sherman Pines and do you know a man by the name of Stanley Pines? Yes, yes you do, why does she ask? And then she tells you.

She tells you that a few hours ago today, there was an accident.

A few hours ago today, a man was alive and now he's not.

Today, Stanley is _gone_.

And you think _no_ , you think _mistake_ , you think _stop_ when she goes on to give her condolences, tells you that your contact number was found on an aged piece of paper as well as where the body is being held at the moment – because that's all it is now, isn't it? A body? An empty shell? A corpse? You note down the information, nodding calmly, gruffly speaking around the painful lump in your throat as your wife watches on with worried eyes.

The line goes flat. You bury your face in your wife's neck. She asks you what's wrong but you think she knows already. You hold her and your son tight in your arms, refusing to let go even as you gasp through tears and shuddering breaths.

" _Stanley's dead_ ," you whisper.

,

Helplessly, you rub her back as you wrap your arms around her. A few feet away, your father sits in the armchair, a tenseness in his jaw, his hands clenched so hard his knuckles turn white. And there is shame and anger and blame boiling inside but you don't want to fight anymore. You're tired of fighting. Still, you shoot him a look, a look that says _your fault_ , that asks _what kind of father_ and _are you even sorry_?

Your mother is inconsolable.

,

The day of the funeral is almost obscenely bright and sunny. As if the world is mocking your loss, telling you that this death is just one in many and the universe has more important things to consider than the loss of your youngest brother.

Stanford organizes the entire event – pays for it, too. It's his fault, he says, I called him here. You don't ask why, don't bother with such a thing for the moment because you're too preoccupied with the closed casket to really think. Was the accident really that bad, that Stanley's corpse can't be shown? An unprecedented rage simmers inside as you

 _No more tears_ – you promised yourself that before you came here. It wasn't what Stanley would have wanted from you, not ever. He was the joker, the most upbeat out of all of them. He was Ma's little free spirit.

You cry anyway.

Stanford is … quiet throughout the entirety of the funeral. But that's okay. You sob your heart out, every regret that you've had over the years for giving up on finding him and bringing him back, every should have, maybe and what if coming to the surface and spilling out of your mouth. Stanford may as well be a statue – he is cool and steady and you hate him for it. You accuse him, tell him, hypocritically, that he should never have called for Stanley.

You're the last to leave. Even Ford eventually walks away, after all is said and done, and his obligations are finished. It's a cold efficiency that has always driven him throughout his life and you struggle not to burst out with words that you can never take back. You want to hit something, to hurt whatever took Stanley away as badly as you're hurting now. You want to turn back time and just … go home the night it happened, the night you weren't there. A night that has always felt stolen, like a quilt missing a square of cloth. You should have had a say, you should have done what Ford and Ma hadn't. It was your right to _be_ there _,_ damn it!

The pain in your hand jolts you as your fist slams down on the top of the gravestone.

Breathe.

Just … breathe.

Eventually, you kneel down on the freshly pat-down earth. The gravestone is cool against your forehead as you lean into it. The ache in your chest is heavy and dark but you suddenly find that you have no more tears to offer.

Instead, you breathe. You mouth a stream of words that probably don't make a lot of sense if you bother paying attention to what you're saying. But when you finally do, you realize you're only really saying two words in a seemingly endless litany.

 _I'm sorry_.

,

You go home to your wife, to your son, to the life you've built around yourself. You wake up in the morning with your wife's arm is draped over your chest. And for the longest time, you stroke her shoulder with your thumb as you listen to the ticking of the clock.

Then, you get up. You brew a pot of hot coffee and slowly sip it from a mug as you watch the sun rise for the new day. And when you gently wake your wife, you can't help but smile a little as she wipes the sleep from her eyes. She holds your hand and asks you if you're alright.

"No," is your honest answer but the day is new and unwritten, the unstoppable procession of time both a blessing and a curse. And your wife is here, resting her head on your shoulder while your son sleeps in the next room. Your lives are unwritten and mysterious and that terrifies you in the way that it did when you first held your child in the hospital. Ghosts of the past haunt you now as it did before, asking you if you'll be better than your father was, if you'll raise your boy well, if you'll do right by your wife.

No matter how much you wish for it, you know by experience that time will only ever move forward. And silently, just as you did back then, you vow to yourself that you will do everything in your power to keep your family from falling apart a second time.

,

,

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Wow, you guys! Your feedback was awesome and I was so glad to learn about the things that you enjoyed reading here. Thank you so, so much.

I know this isn't really a chapter that you might have expected or wanted but I find Shermie a rather important aspect in Stan and Ford's lives. Out of the entire Pines family, he's probably one of the least involved in all of their supernatural-related shenanigans but I think that's the most interesting - as well as probably the saddest - part. He doesn't know anything about what's happening but he has to live through his family's actions - Ford's distance, Stanley's disappearance, the faked death. I haven't found a lot of other fics that go into it and I can't help but feel that it's such a shame because Shermie's situation is just so _relatable_. For anyone who's lost a loved one, who slowly found themselves estranged from someone they held dear, who was far away from their family when tragedy struck, Shermie's pain is very real.

Sorry for the ramble. I usually dislike ANs as long as this but if you read through it, thanks. Writing out Shermie's side actually became somewhat therapeutic for me, as I experienced tragedy earlier last year in much the same way. I wasn't even able to go to the funeral.

Thank you for reading the latest chapter!


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